He reaped the sword's due meed,
Hence no proud boast from him let Hades hear!
Chorus. Strophe IX.
Perplexed I am, bewildered sore
Which way to turn; escape is vain; 1510
Totters the house; I dread the crimson rain
That with loud plashing shakes these walls; no more
Falleth in niggard droppings now the gore.
And bent on deed of mischief, Fate anew
On other whetstones, whetteth vengeance due.
Antistrophe II.
Earth! Earth! oh hadst thou been
My shroud ere I my king
Prone in the silver-sided bath had seen!
Who will inter him? Who his dirge shall sing?
So hardy thou? Wilt thou who didst assail 1520
Thy husband's life, thyself uplift the wail?
Wilt to his shade, for the great deeds he wrought,
Render a graceless grace, with malice fraught?
Antistrophe III.
With tears of honest grief
Weeping the godlike chief,
Above the tomb who now shall raise
The funeral hymn? Who speak the hero's praise?
Clytemnestra. Strophe X.
Not thine the task to counsel here.
By us he fell: this man we slew;
Ours be it to inurn him too; 1530
Borne from the palace, o'er the bier
