Page:Tragedies of Sophocles (Plumptre 1878).djvu/573

Rh Where are ye, who, of all

That Hellas hers doth call,

Are found most evil, reckless of the right?

For whom I wore my life,

In ceaseless, dreary strife,

Slaying by land and sea dread forms of might;

Yet now to him who lies

In these sharp agonies,

Not one will bring the fire

Or sword, wherewith to work his heart's desire;

And none will come and smite

His head to death's dark night,

And end his misery;

Ah me! fie on you, fie.

Come, boy, thou son of him who lieth there,

Come thou and help, the work o'ertasketh me;

Thine eye is young and clear;

Thy vision more than mine to save and free.

I lend my hand to lift;

But neither from within, nor yet without,

May I a life forgetting pain work out;

Zeus only gives that gift.

Boy, boy! where, where art thou?

Come, lift me up; yea, this way raise thou me.

Oh me! Ο cursed Fates!

It leaps again, it leaps upon me now,

That scourge that desolates,

Fierce, stem, inexorable agony.