Chorus
Which shall I weep ? which most our hefli'ts
should fill
With grief, the present or the future ill?
The dying or the dead? 'Tis equal woe
To feel the stroke, or fear th' impending blow.
Oh ! for a breeze to waft us o'er
Propitious to some distant shore !
To sliield our souls from sore affright,
And save us from the dreadful sight :
That sight the hardest heart would move
In his last pangs the son of Jove ;
To see the poison run through every vein,
And limbs convulsed with agonising pain.
Behold th' attendant train is nigh,
I hear the voice of misery ;
E'en ;is the plaintive nightingale,
That warbles sweet her mournful tale ;
Silent and slow they lead him on ;
Hark ! 1 hear Alcides groan !
Again 'tis silence all ! This way they tread ;
Or sleeps he now, or rests he with the dead ?
Trachiniae. Sophocles. Thomas Francklin (Translator). London. 1758–1759.