Page:A History of Ancient Greek Literature.djvu/255

Our child, sire, is not here: I would he were:
Orestes, he who holds the hostages
For thee and me. Yet nowise marvel at it.
Our war-friend Strophios keeps him, who spoke much
Of blows nigh poised to fall,—thy daily peril,
And many plots a traitorous folk might weave,
I once being weak, manlike, to spurn the fallen.

But I—the stormy rivers of my grief
Are quenched now at the spring, arid no drop left.
My late-couched eyes are seared with many a blight,
Weeping the beacon fires that burned for thee
For ever answerless. And did sleep come,
A gnat's thin song would shout me in my dreams,
And start me up seeing thee all girt with terrors
Close-crowded, and too long for one night's sleep!
And now 'tis all past! Now with heart at peace
I hail my King, my watch-dog of the fold,
My ship's one cable of hope, my pillar firm
Where all else reels, my father's one-born heir,
My land scarce seen at sea when hope was dead,
My happy sunrise after nights of storm,
My living well-spring in the wilderness!
Oh, it is joy, the waiting-time is past!
Thus, King, I greet thee home. No god need grudge—
Sure we have suffered in time past enough—
This one day's triumph. Light thee, sweet my husband,
From this high seat: yet set not on bare earth
Thy foot, great King, the foot that trampled Troy!
Ho, thralls, why tarry ye, whose task is set
To carpet the King's way? Bring priceless crimson:
Let all his path be red, and justice guide him,
Who saw his deeds, at last, unhoped for, home!"