78
Of the dark rocks Symplegades
Didst leave behind thee in thy wake.
Forlorn one, why do pangs like these
Of passion thy torn spirit shake?
Why shall stern murder of them grow? 1275 (1267)
For scarce is any cleansing found
Of kindred blood that from the ground
For vengeance cries: but like for like
The gods send curses down and strike
The slayers and their houses low. 1280 (1270)
First Son.
Alas!
What shall I do? Whither run from our mother?
Second Son.
I know not, dearest brother, for we perish.
Chorus.
Dost hear thy children, hear their cry of pain?
Oh luckless woman, desperate!
Shall I within the house then? I were fain 1285 (1275)
To shield the children from such fate.
