Stroph. I.
Chor. Blessed are those whose life no woe doth taste!
For unto those whose house
The Gods have shaken, nothing fails of curse
Or woe, that creeps to generations far.
E'en thus a wave, (when spreads,
With blasts from Thrakian coasts,
The darkness of the deep,)590
Up from the sea's abyss
Hither and thither rolls the black sand on,
And every jutting peak,
Swept by the storm-wind's strength,
Lashed by the fierce wild waves,
Re-echoes with the far-resounding roar.
Antistroph. I.
I see the woes that smote, in ancient days,
*The seed of Labdacos,
*Who perished long ago, with grief on grief
Still falling, nor does this age rescue that;
Some God still smites it down,
Nor have they any end:
For now there rose a gleam,
Over the last weak shoots,
That sprang from out the race of Œdipus;600
Yet this the blood-stained scythe
Of those that reign below
Cuts off relentlessly,
And maddened speech, and frenzied rage of heart.
Stroph. II.
Thy power, Ο Zeus, what haughtiness of man,
Yea, what can hold in check?
Which neither sleep, that maketh all things old,
