With tears; and in the midst of speech
I groan aloud. No doubt 'tis true,
That grief, well trained in weeping, loves
To melt away in tears; and oft
The wretched feel a strong desire
To weep their fill. E'en so I long
To cry aloud my wretchedness,
To rend these gorgeous Tyrian robes, 955
And shriek my misery to heaven.
My mind gives intimation dark
Of coming grief, its own distress
Foreboding. So the sailor fears
The raging tempest's near approach,
When tranquil waters heave and swell, 960
Without a breath of wind. Thou fool,
What grief, what rising storm of fate
Dost thou imagine nigh? Nay, nay,
Believe thy brother; for thy fear—
'Tis groundless, whatsoe'er it be,
Or thou dost fear too late. Ah me,
I would not be unhappy now; 965
But in my soul dim terror stalks,
Nor can my eyes withhold their tears;
And all for naught. What can it be?
Am I possessed by grief or fear?
Or can this some great rapture be,
That weeps for joy?
Atreus [greeting his brother with effusive affection]: With one consent,
my brother, let us keep 970
This festal day. For this the happy day
Which shall the scepter 'stablish in thy hand,
And link our family in the bonds of peace.
Thyestes [pushing the remains of the feast from him]: Enough of food
and wine! One thing alone
Can swell my generous sum of happiness—
If with my children I may share my joy. 975
Atreus: Believe that in the father's bosom rest
The sons; both now and ever shall they be
With thee. No single part of these thy sons