Now hurled upon the ground, and now his limbs
To heaven exposing. Then the charioteers
Full hardly keeping back the rush of steeds,
Freed the poor corpse so bloody, that not one
Of all his friends would know him, and his body
They burnt upon the pyre; and now they bear,
The chosen of the Phokians that have come,
In a poor urn of bronze, a mighty form
Reduced to these sad ashes, that for him
May be a tomb within his fatherland.760
Such is my tale, full sad, I trow, to hear,
But unto those who saw it as we saw,
The greatest of all evils I have known.
Chor. Woe, woe! So perish, root and branch, it seems,
The race of those our lords of long ago.
Clytem. Ο Zeus! What means this . . . Shall I say, good news?
Or fearful, yet most gainful? Still 'tis sad
If by my sorrows I must save my life.
Attend. Why does my tale, Ο queen, thus trouble thee?
Clytem. Wondrous and strange the force of motherhood!770
Though wronged, a mother cannot hate her children.
Attend. We then, it seems, are come to thee in vain.
Clytem. Nay, not in vain. How could it be in vain?
Since thou bring'st proofs that he is dead, who, born
Child of my heart, from breasts that gave him suck
Then turned aside, and dwelt on foreign soil
In banishment; and since he left our land
Ne'er came to see me, but with dreadful words,
His father's death still casting upon me,
Spake out his threats; so that nor day nor night780
I knew sweet sleep, but still the sway of Time
Led on my life, as one condemned to death.
But now, (for lo! this day has stopped all fear
