MEROPE.
341
THE CHORUS.
Ah me! str. 2.
MEROPE.
Thou confessest the prize
In the rushing, thundering, mad,
Cloud-enveloped, obscure,
Unapplauded, unsung
Race of calamity, mine?
THE CHORUS.
None can truly claim that
Mournful pre-eminence, not
Thou.
MEROPE.
Fate gives it, ah me!
THE CHORUS.
Not, above all, in the doubts,
Double and clashing, that hang ——
MEROPE.
What then? ant. 2.
Seems it lighter, my loss,
If, perhaps, unpierced by the sword,
My child lies in his jagg'd
Sunless prison of rock,
On the black wave borne to and fro?
THE CHORUS.
Worse, far worse, if his friend,
If the Arcadian within,
If ——
