And now as face to face, Myself reporting to myself I trace Their safe return; and yet My mind, taught by itself, cannot forget Erinnys' dolorous cry, That lyreless melody, And hath no strength of wonted confidence. Not vain these pulses of the inward sense, As my heart beateth in its wild unrest, Within true-boding breast; And hoping against hope, I yet will pray My fears may all prove false and pass away. STROPHE II Of high, o'erflowing health There is no limit found that satisfies; For soon by force or stealth, As foe 'gainst whom but one poor wall doth rise, Disease upon it presses, and the lot Of fair good fortune onward moves until It strikes on unseen reef where help is not. But should fear move their will For safety of their freight, With measured sling a part they sacrifice, And so avert their fate, Lest the whole house should sink no more to rise, O'erwhelmed with misery; Nor does the good ship perish utterly: So too abundant gift, From Zeus in double plenty, from the earth, Doth the worn soul from anxious care uplift, And turns the famished wail to bounding joy and mirth. ANTISTROPHE II But blood that once is shed In purple stream of death upon the ground, Who then, when life is fled, A charm to call it back again hath found? Else against him who raised the dead to life Zeus had not sternly warred, as warning given To all men; but if Fate were not at strife With Fate that brings from Heaven Help from the Gods, my heart, Out-stripping speech, had given thought free vent. But now in gloom apart It sits and moans in sullen discontent, And hath no hope that e'er It shall an issue seasonably fair From out the tangled skein Of life's strange course unravel straight and clear, While in the fever of continuing pain My soul doth burden sore of troublous anguish bear. THE LIBATION-POURERS VERSES 20-75 STROPHE I Lo, from the palace door We wend our way to pour Gifts on the dead; And in our bitter woe, Our hands with many a blow Smite breast and head. On each fair cheek the nail Has ploughed full many a trail, And all to tatters torn The garments we have worn; The foldings of the vest O'er maiden's swelling breast Are roughly rent; For now on us the chance That shuts out joy and dance Our fate hath sent. ANTISTROPHE I