Aias is calm again,
Nor lets his fierce hot wrath against the Atreidæ range.
1185–1222.
Stroph. I.
When will they cease, the years,
The long, long tale of years that come and go,
Bringing their ceaseless fears,
The toils of war that scatter woe on woe,
Through Troïa's champaign wide,
Reproach and shame to all the Hellenes' pride?
Antistroph. I.
Would that he first had trod
The wide, vast Heaven, or Hades, home of all,
Who erst the Hellenes showed
The hateful strife where men in conflict fall!
Ah, woes that woes begat!
For he, yes he, hath made men desolate.
Stroph. II.
Yes he, e'en he, hath made it mine
To know nor joy of flowery wreaths,
Nor deep cups flowing o'er with wine,
Nor the sweet strain the soft flute breathes;
Nor yet (ah, woe! ah, cursed spite!)
The joy that crowns the livelong night.
Yes, he from love and all its joy
Has cut me off, ah me! ah me!
And here I linger still in Troy,
