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The events are self-evident; the messenger’s report is plain to see. Twofold is our distress—double disaster
of kindred murder, this double suffering has come to fulfillment. What shall I say? What else indeed than that sorrow born of sorrows surround this house’s hearth?
But sail upon the wind of lamentation, my friends,
850
and about your head row with your hands’ rapid stroke in conveyance of the dead,
1
that stroke which always causes the sacred slack-sailed, black-clothed ship to pass over Acheron to the unseen land where Apollo does not walk,
855
the sunless land that receives all men.
But here come Antigone and Ismene to do their bitter duty, the dirge over their brothers both. With all sincerity, I think, will they
860
pour forth their fitting grief from their lovely, deep-bosomed breasts. But it is right for us, before their singing, to cry out the awful hymn of the Erinys and thereafter
865
sing the hated victory song of Hades.
Ah, sisters most unfortunate in your kin of all women who clasp their girdle about their robes, I weep, I groan, and there is no feigning in the shrill cries that come straight from my heart.
870
The events are self-evident; the messenger’s report is plain to see. Twofold is our distress—double disaster
of kindred murder, this double suffering has come to fulfillment. What shall I say? What else indeed than that sorrow born of sorrows surround this house’s hearth?
But sail upon the wind of lamentation, my friends,
850
But sail upon the wind of lamentation, my friends,
and about your head row with your hands’ rapid stroke in conveyance of the dead,
1
that stroke which always causes the sacred slack-sailed, black-clothed ship to pass over Acheron to the unseen land where Apollo does not walk,
855
the sunless land that receives all men.
But here come Antigone and Ismene to do their bitter duty, the dirge over their brothers both. With all sincerity, I think, will they
860
But here come Antigone and Ismene to do their bitter duty, the dirge over their brothers both. With all sincerity, I think, will they
pour forth their fitting grief from their lovely, deep-bosomed breasts. But it is right for us, before their singing, to cry out the awful hymn of the Erinys and thereafter
865
sing the hated victory song of Hades.
Ah, sisters most unfortunate in your kin of all women who clasp their girdle about their robes, I weep, I groan, and there is no feigning in the shrill cries that come straight from my heart.
870
Ah, sisters most unfortunate in your kin of all women who clasp their girdle about their robes, I weep, I groan, and there is no feigning in the shrill cries that come straight from my heart.
Seven Against Thebes. Aeschylus. Herbert Weir Smyth (Translator). New York. 1922.
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