Page:Tragedies of Sophocles (Plumptre 1878).djvu/560

462 Yea, oracles are vain,

In dreams or prophet's strain,

Unless this shadowy phantom of the night

Shall reach its goal, victorious in the right.

Ο chariot-race of old,

Full of great woe untold,

From Pelops' hand;

How did'st thou come, yon time,

Dark with the guilt of crime,

To this our land!

For since the ocean wave

Gave Myrtilos a grave,

Out of the golden car

Hurled headlong forth afar,

With shame and foul despite,

No shame hath failed to light

On this our dwelling-place,

Bringing most foul disgrace.

Why, when we see on high

The birds whose wisdom is of noblest worth,

Still caring to supply

The wants of those from whom they had their birth,

Who fed their nestling youth,

Why do not we like boon with like requite?

Nay, by the lightning bright

Of Zeus, and heavenly strength of Law and Truth,

Not long shall we live on unpunishèd.