When she shall hear his frenzied soul's disease,
With wailing, wailing loud,
Will she, ill-starred one, cry, nor pour the strain
Of nightingale's sad song,
But shriller notes will utter in lament,630
And on her breast will fall
The smiting of her hands,
And fearful tearing of her hoary hair.
Antistroph. II.
For better would he fare in Hades dread,
Who liveth sick in soul,
Who, springing from the noblest hero-stock
Of all the Achæans strong,
Abides no longer in his native mood,
But wanders far astray.640
Ο wretched father, what a weight of woe,
Thy son's, hast thou to learn,
Which none else yet has borne,
Of all the high Zeus-sprung Æacidæ.
Enter Aias from his tent, with his sword.
Aias. Time in its long, long course immeasurable,
Both brings to light all hidden things, and hides
What once was seen; and nothing is there strange
We may not look for: even dreadest oaths
And firm resolves must yield themselves to him.650
So I, who for a while was stern and hard,
Like steel, oil-dipped, am womanised in tone,
Moved by my wife's fond prayers, whom I am loth
To leave a widow with her orphaned child
Among my foes. But now I go to bathe
Where the fair meadows slope along the shore,
That having washed away my stains of guilt,
I may avert the Goddess's dire wrath;
