"Ah, ah the fire! it waxes, nears me now—
Woe, woe for me, Apollo of the dawn!"
And her last speech is a cry to the actual sun, whose light she will see no more for ever, to light her avengers to their work. Close inspection of all this scene will show Æschylus at his very highest point of inspiration; it is as true, and as imaginative, as anything in King Lear.
With respect to the text, I think I have only once departed from usual interpretations. Where the text is mutilated or corrupt I have supplied or amended, as the context seemed to direct, to the extent of a word or two. (See Appendix to The Libation-Bearers.)
The one occasion where my version differs, I believe, from any yet suggested, is the celebrated passage (Ag. ll. 105–7):
ἔτι γὰρ θεόθεν καταπνείει
πειθὼ μολπᾶν
ἀλκᾷ σύμφυτος αἰών.
This I have interpreted in opposition to those who have taken ἀλκᾷ σύμφυτος αἰών as in some way describing the condition of the speaker. I suggest that it may rather be taken closely with θεόθεν and that the whole passage means "Still upon me doth the divine life, whose strength waxes never old (lit. which is congenital with strength), breathe from heaven the impulse of song." This seems to suit the context well, as I may shortly explain. The chorus have just been bewailing the sad and tremulous weakness of old age, too feeble for war, too feeble to walk without a staff, sad and presageful of future evils, and only at moments roused to hope by propitious omens of sacrifice. Suddenly the light of comfort breaks upon them. Old and feeble, they have yet the divine inspiration of song, breathed on them from "realms of help" (ἀλκά) by powers which never wax old nor feeble. Then follows the matchless ode, with
