Slain by his foes. One day shall he who slew,
Guileful Odysseus, pay fit penalty.
(Raises the death-dirge).
(Str.)
In moans that of no strange lips I borrow,
O son, my sorrow,
I wail for thee.
What woefullest journey was thine, thy faring
Of ill-starred daring
To Troy oversea, 900
Despite my warning, thy father's pleading!
Dear head!—O bleeding
Heart of me!
Chorus.
So far as one may take on him who hath
No tie of kinship, I too wail thy son. 905
Muse.
(Ant.)
Curse ye, Odysseus and Oineus' scion,
Through whom I cry on
My noble dead!
Curse her, who voyaged from Hellas over
To a Phrygian lover, 910
A wanton's bed,
Who of sons made desolate towns without number,
And bowed thee in slumber
Of death, dear head!
Sore hast thou wrung mine heart, Philammon's son, 915
In life, and since to Hades thou hast passed.
Thine overweening, ruinous rivalry
