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Chorus
In vain, it seems, you Phrygian boy
1
pacing with dainty step among your golden chalices, do you fill high the cup of Zeus, a lovely service;
820
the land of your birth is being consumed by fire. The shore re-echoes to our cries; and, as a bird bewails its young,
825
so we bewail our husbands or our children, or our old mothers. The dew-fed springs where you bathed, the course where you trained,
830
are now no more; but you beside the throne of Zeus are sitting with a calm, sweet smile upon your fair young face, while the spear of
Hellas
has destroyed the land of Priam.
835
In vain, it seems, you Phrygian boy
1
pacing with dainty step among your golden chalices, do you fill high the cup of Zeus, a lovely service;
820
the land of your birth is being consumed by fire. The shore re-echoes to our cries; and, as a bird bewails its young,
825
so we bewail our husbands or our children, or our old mothers. The dew-fed springs where you bathed, the course where you trained,
830
are now no more; but you beside the throne of Zeus are sitting with a calm, sweet smile upon your fair young face, while the spear of
Hellas
has destroyed the land of Priam.
835
The Trojan Women. Euripides. Edward P. Coleridge (Translator). London. 1906.
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