Page:Tragedies of Sophocles (Plumptre 1878).djvu/599

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Ο wingèd birds that fly

Through the clear, open sky,

Ο tribes, whose eyes gleam bright,

Of beasts that roam the hills,

No more will ye in flight

Forth from my dwelling draw me at your will;

For I no more possess

The might I had of old

(Ah me for my distress!)

In those fierce weapons bold;

But now, with little care

This place is guarded against dreadest ill,

And none need now beware.

Come ye, 'tis now your hour to feast at will;

On me your vengeance wreaking,

This livid flesh devour:

I soon shall fail; for who, life's nurture seeking,

Can live on air, deprived of all earth's kind fields pour?

Nay, by the Gods, if still

Aught can thy feeling quicken for a friend,

Draw near, with all good will,

To one who fain his steps to thee would bend;

But know, yea, know full well,

'Tis thine to end this woe.

Sad is't our ills to swell,

While they, in myriad forms, around us ever grow.