Tecmessa
He is not to be seen. This folded garment
Shall hide the horrid sight — a sight no friend
"Would wish to see : whilst from his nostrils streams
The black blood, more still issuing from the wound
Made by his own destructive hand. O me !
What must I do 1 What friend will raise him up 1
Oh ! where is Teucer ? He should have been here
To pay his last sad duty to a brother.
What once thou hast been, and what now thou art.
Thy very foes must sure lament thy fate.
Thy sad purpose was designed ;
Long since wert thou resolved to seek repose
From thy never-ceasing woes :
This from the daily sigh, the nightly tear,
This from thy sorrows did I fear ;
This from thy hate which nought could e'er assuage ;
And 'gainst th' Atridse all thy rage :
For never did thy soul contentment know,
But still with fiercest indignation glow.
Since gi'eat Achilles' arms were given to thy foo.
Ajax. Sophocles. Thomas Francklin (Translator). London. 1758–1759.