To death by other hands more merciless.
They needs must die: and, since it needs must be, 1240
Even I will give them death, who gave them life.
Up, gird thee for the fray, mine heart! Why loiter
To do the dread ill deeds that must be done?
Come, wretched hand of mine, grasp thou the sword;
Grasp it;—move toward life's bitter starting-post, 1245
And turn not craven: think not on thy babes,
How dear they are, how thou didst bear them: nay,
For this short day do thou forget thy sons,
Thereafter mourn them. For, although thou slay,
Yet dear they are, and I a wretched woman. 1250
Chorus.
(Str.)
O Earth, O all-revealing splendour
Of the Sun, look down on a woman accurst,
Or ever she slake the murder-thirst
Of a mother whose hands would smite the tender
Fruit of her womb.
Look down, for she sprang of thy lineage golden,
And by terror of men is the Gods' seed holden[1]
And the shadow of doom.
But thou, O heaven-begotten glory,
Restrain her, refrain her: the wretched, the gory
Erinnys by demons dogged, we implore thee, 1260
Cast forth of the home!
(Ant.)
For nought was the childbirth-travail wasted;
For nought didst thou bear them, the near and the dear,
- ↑ Conjecturing πίτνει for MSS. πίτνειν.
