Hath wreaked revenge upon Achilles' son,—
Yea, hath remembered, like some evil man,
An old, old feud! How then shall he be wise? 1165
Enter bearers with corpse of Neoptolemus.
Chorus.
Lo, lo, where the prince, high borne on the bier,
From the Delphian land to his home draweth near!
Alas for the strong death-quelled! Alas for thee, stricken with eld!
Not as thou wouldest, Achilles' scion 1170
To his home dost thou welcome, the whelp of the lion.
In oneness of weird, in affliction drear,
Art thou linked with the dead lying here.
Peleus.
(Str. 1)
Woe for the sight breaking on me,
That mine hands usher in at my door!
Ah me, 'tis my death! ah me,
O city of Thessaly,
No child have I,—this hath undone me,—
Neither seed in mine halls any more.
Woe for me!—whitherward turning
Shall mine eyes see the gladness of yore? 1180
O lips, cheek, and hands of my yearning!
O had a God but o'erthrown thee
'Neath Ilium on Simoïs' shore!
Chorus.
Yea, he had fallen with honour, had he died
Thus, ancient, and thy lot were happier so. 1185
