And this my meed!—with arms clasped round my son
I wail! No new sage will I bring to thee.
Chorus.
Falsely then Thracia's charioteer reviled 950
Us, Hector, as the plotters of his death.
Hector.
I knew it: need was none of seers to tell
That this man perished by Odysseus' craft.
And how could I, beholding Hellas' host
Camped on this soil, but send mine heralds forth 955
To friends, to bid them come and help our land?
I sent them; and he came, who owed me aid.
Ah, little joy have I to see him dead!
Ready am I to rear him now a tomb,
And to burn with him splendour of countless robes. 960
A friend he came, in sorrow goeth hence.
Muse.
He shall not into earth's dark lap go down;
With such strong crying will I pray Hell's Queen,
Child of Demeter Lady of Earth's increase,
To grant his soul release. My debtor is she 965
To show that yet she honours Orpheus' friends.
Yet to me as one dead, that sees not light,
Henceforth shall he be: never shall he come
To meet me more, nor see his mother's form.
In caverns of the silver-veinèd land 970
A god-man shall he lie, beholding light,
As Bacchus' prophet 'neath Pangaios' rock
Dwelt, god revered of them that knew the truth.
