From thy breast to rend thy darling, from thine age-enfeebled grasp.
Hie thee to the temples now: haste, before the altars bow:
Crouch low to Agamemnon, his knees in suppliance clasp.
Lift up thy voice and cry to the Gods that sit on high:
Let the Nether-dwellers hear it through their darkness ringing wild.
For, except they turn and spare, and thy prevalence of prayer150
Redeem thee from bereavement of thy ruin-stricken child,
Thou must surely live to gaze where a maiden on her face
On a grave-mound lieth slaughtered, while the darkly-gleaming tide
Welleth, welleth from the neck which the golden mockeries deck,
And all her body crimsons in the bubbling horror dyed.
Hecuba.
Woe for mine anguish! what outcry availeth
To thrill forth its agony-throes?
What wailing its fulness of torment outwaileth—
Wretched eld—bitter bondage where heart and flesh faileth?
Ah me for my woes!
What champion is left me?—what sons to defend me?—160
