Ah state of mortal man! in time of weal,
A line, a shadow! and if ill fate fall,
One wet sponge-sweep wipes all our trace away—
And this I deem less piteous, of the twain.
Chorus.
Too true it is! our mortal state
With bliss is never satiate,
And none before the palace high
And stately of prosperity
Cries to us with a voice of fear
Away! 'tis ill to enter here!
Lo! this our lord hath trodden down,
By grace of heaven, old Priam's town,
And praised as god he stands once more
On Argos' shore!
Yet now—if blood shed long ago
Cries out that other blood shall flow,
His life-blood, his, to pay again
The stern requital of the slain—
Peace to that braggart's vaunting vain,
Who, having heard the chieftain's tale,
Yet boasts of bliss untouched by bale!
Voice of Agamemnon.
O I am sped—a deep, a mortal blow.
Chorus.
Listen, listen! who is screaming as in mortal agony?
Voice of Agamemnon.
O! O! again, another, another blow!
