ANTISTROPHE II Yea, 'tis our work to set another free From tasks like this, and by my service due To give the Gods their perfect liberty, Relieved from task of meting judgment true; For this our tribe from out his fellowship Zeus hath cast out as worthy of all hate, And from our limbs the purple blood-drops drip; So with a mighty leap and grievous weight My foot I bring upon my quivering prey, With power to make the swift and strong give way, An evil and intolerable fate. STROPHE III And all the glory and the pride of men, Though high exalted in the light of day, Wither and fade away, Of little honour then, When in the darkness of the grave they stay, By our attack brought low, The loathèd dance through which in raiment black we go: ANTISTROPHE III And through the ill that leaves him dazed and blind, He still is all unconscious that he falls, So thick a cloud enthrals The vision of his mind: And Rumour with a voice of wailing calls, And tells of gathering gloom That doth the ancient halls in darkness thick entomb. STROPHE IV So it abideth still; Ready and prompt are we to work our will, The dreaded Ones who bring The dire remembrance of each deed of ill, Whom mortals may not soothe with offering, Working a task with little honour fraught, Yea, all dishonoured, task the Gods detest, In sunless midnight wrought, By which alike are pressed Those who yet live, and those who lie in gloom unblest. ANTISTROPHE IV What mortal man then will not crouch in fear, As he my work shall hear, The task to me by destiny from Heaven As from the high Gods given? Yea, a time-honoured lot is mine I trow, No shame in it I see, Though deep beneath the earth my station be, In gloom that never feels the sunlight's quickening glow. VERSES 468-537 STROPHE I Now is there utter fall and overthrow, Which new-made laws begin; If he who struck the matricidal blow, His right—not so, his utter wrong shall win, This baseness will the minds of all men lead To wanton, reckless thought, And now for parents waits there woe, and deed Of parricidal guilt by children wrought. ANTISTROPHE I For then no more shall wrath from this our band, The Mænad troop that watch the deeds of men, Come for these crimes; but lo! on either hand I will let slip all evil fate, and then, Telling his neighbours' grief, Shall this man seek from that, and seek in vain, Remission and relief, Nor is there any certain cure for pain. And lo! the wretched man all fruitlessly For grace and help shall cry.