{55} ANTISTROPHE II. In vain he sleeps; for in the fretful night Shapes of fair seeming Flit through his dreaming, Soothing him sweetly, Leaving him fleetly Of bliss all barren. The shape fond fancy weaves him His eager grasp would keep, In vain; it cheats the hand; and leaves him, sweeping Swift o'er the paths of sleep. These sorrows pierce the Atridan chiefs, And, worse than these, their private griefs, But general Greece that to the fray Sent her thousands, mourns to-day; And Grief stout-hearted at each door Sits to bear the burden sore Of deathful news from the Trojan shore. Ah! many an Argive heart to-day Is pricked with wail and mourning, Knowing how many went to Troy, From Troy how few returning! The mothers of each house shall wait To greet their sons at every gate; But, alas! not men, but dust of men Each sorrowing house receiveth, The urn in which the fleshly case Its cindered ruin leaveth. STROPHE III. For Mars doth market bodies, and for gold Gives dust, and in the battle of the bold Holds the dread scales of Fate. Burnt cinders, a light burden, but to friends A heavy freight, He sends from Troy; the beautiful vase he sends With dust, for hearts, well lined, on which descends The frequent tear. And friends do wail their praise; thin here Expert to wield the pointed spear, And this who cast his life away, Nobly in ignoble fray, For a strange woman's sake. And in their silent hearts hate burns; {56} Against the kings The moody-muttered grudge creeps forth, And points its stings. Others they mourn who 'neath Troy's wall Entombed, dark sleep prolong, Low pressed beneath the hostile sod, The beautiful, the strong! ANTISTROPHE III. O hard to bear, when evil murmurs fly, Is a nation's hate; unblest on whom doth lie A people's curse! My heart is dark, in my fear-procreant brain Bad begets worse. For not from heaven the gods behold in vain Hands red with slaughter. The black-mantled train[f17] Who watch and wait, In their own hour shall turn to bane The bliss that grew from godless gain. The mighty man with heart elate Shall fall; even as the sightless shades, The great man's glory fades. Sweet to the ear is the popular cheer Forth billowed loudly; But the bolt from on high shall blast his eye[n45] That looketh proudly. Be mine the sober bliss, and far From fortune's high-strung rapture; Not capturing others, may I never See my own city's capture!