Page:Tragedies of Sophocles (Plumptre 1878).djvu/428

330 A treasure of entreaty. And should one

In all our army tear thee from the dead,

May he thus base, unburied, basely die,

An exile from his home, with all his race

As utterly cut off, as I now cut

This braided lock. Take it, Ο boy, and keep;

Let no man move thee, hold it suppliant;

And ye stand by him, not as women found

Who should be men, but help him till I come

To bury him, though all should hinder me.

Chor. When will it end, the last of wandering years,

That ever bring to me

The ceaseless woe of war's unresting toils,

Through Troïa, drear and wide,

The Hellenes' shame and reproach?

Would that that man had entered Heaven's high vault,

Or Hades, man's last home,

Who for the Hellenes stirred War's hateful strife;

(O woes that woe beget!)

For he hath laid men low.

He hath given me never to share

The joy of garlands of flowers,

Nor that of the deep, flowing cups,

Nor the dulcet notes of the flute,

Nor—curses light on his head!—

The pleasure that cometh with sleep.

Yea, from love, from love and its joys

He hath cut me off. (Ah, woe is me!)

And here I lie, cared for by none,