For see, they come to bitter deed called forth, Ismene and the maid Antigone, To wail their brothers' fall; With little doubt I deem, That they will pour from fond, deep-bosomed breasts A worthy strain of grief: But it is meet that we, Before we hear their cry, 860 Should utter the harsh hymn Erinnys loves, And sing to Hades dark The Pæan of distress. O ye, most evil-fated in your kin, Of all who guard their robes with maiden's band, I weep and wail, and feigning know I none, That I should fail to speak My sorrow from my heart. STROPHE I _Semi-Chor. A._ Alas! alas! Men of stern mood, who would not list to friends, Unwearied in all ills, 870 Seizing your father's house, O wretched ones With the spear's murderous point. _Semi-Chor. B._ Yea, wretched they who found a wretched doom, With havoc of the house. ANTISTROPHE I _Semi-Chor. A._ Alas! alas! Ye who laid low the ancient walls of home, On sovereignty, ill won, Your eyes have looked, and ye at last are brought To concord by the sword. _Semi-Chor. B._ Yea, of a truth, the curse of Œdipus 880 Erinnys dread fulfils. STROPHE II _Semi-Chor. A._ Yea, smitten through the heart, Smitten through sides where flowed the blood of brothers. Ah me! ye doomed of God! Ah me! the curses dire Of deaths ye met with each at other's hands! _Semi-Chor. B._ Thou tell'st of men death-smitten through and through, Both in their homes and lives, With wrath beyond all speech, 890 And doom of discord fell, That sprang from out the curse their father spake. ANTISTROPHE II _Semi-Chor. A._ Yea, through the city runs A wailing cry. The high towers wail aloud; Wails all the plain that loves her heroes well; And to their children's sons The wealth will go for which The strife of those ill-starred ones brought forth death. _Semi-Chor. B._ Quick to resent, they shared their fortune so, That each like portion won; *Nor can their friends regard Their umpire without blame; 900 Nor is our voice in thanks to Ares raised. STROPHE III _Semi-Chor. A._ By the sword smitten low, Thus are they now; By the sword smitten low, There wait them ... Nay, Doth one perchance ask what? Shares in their old ancestral sepulchres.