Semi-Chor. A. Yea, through the city runs

      A wailing cry. The high towers wail aloud;

      Wails all the plain that loves her heroes well;

      And to their children's sons

      The wealth will go for which

      The strife of those ill-starred ones brought forth death.

      Semi-Chor. B. Quick to resent, they shared their fortune so,

      That each like portion won;

      Nor can their friends regard

      Their umpire without blame;

      Nor is our voice in thanks to Ares raised.

      Semi-Chor. A. By the sword smitten low,

      Thus are they now;

      By the sword smitten low,

      There wait them … Nay,

      Doth one perchance ask what?

      Shares in their old ancestral sepulchres.

      Semi-Chor. B. *The sorrow of the house is borne to them

      By my heart-rending wail.

      Mine own the cries I pour;

      Mine own the woes I weep,

      Bitter and joyless, shedding truest tears

      From heart that faileth, even as they fall,

      For these two kingly chiefs.

      Semi-Chor. A. Yes; one may say of them,

      That wretched pair,

      That they much ill have wrought

      To their own host;

      Yea, and to alien ranks

      Of many nations fallen in the fray.

      Semi-Chor. B. Ah! miserable she who bare those twain,

      'Bove all of women born

      Who boast a mother's name!

      Taking her son, her own,

      As spouse, she bare these children, and they both,

      By mutual slaughter and by brothers' hands,

      Have found their end in death.

      Semi-Chor. A. Yes; of the same womb born, and doomèd both,

      Not as friends part, they fell,

      In strife to madness pushed

      In this their quarrel's end.

      Semi-Chor. B. The quarrel now is hushed,

      And in the ensanguined earth their lives are blent;

      Full near in blood are they.

      Stern umpire of their strifes

      Has been the stranger from beyond the sea,129

      Fresh from the furnace, keen and sharpened steel.

      Stern, too, is Ares found,

      Distributing their goods,

      Making their father's curses all too true.

      Semi-Chor. A. At last they have their share, ah, wretched ones!

      Of burdens sent from God.

      And now beneath them lies

      A boundless wealth of – earth.

      Semi-Chor. B. O ye who your own race

      Have made to burgeon out with many woes!

      Over the end at last

      The brood of Curses raise

      Their shrill, sharp cry of lamentation loud,

      The race being put to flight of utmost rout,

      And Atè's trophy stands,

      Where in the gates they fell;

      And Fate, now both are conquered, rests at last.

      Ant. Thou wast smitten, and thou smotest.

      Ism. Thou did'st slaughter, and wast slaughtered.

      Ant. Thou with spear to death did'st smite him.

      Ism. Thou with spear to death wast smitten.

      Ant. Oh, the woe of all your labours!

      Ism. Oh, the woe of all ye suffered!

      Ant. Pour the cry of lamentation.

      Ism. Pour the tears of bitter weeping.

      Ant. There in death thou liest prostrate.

      Ism. Having wrought a great destruction.

      Ant. Ah! my mind is crazed with wailing.

      Ism. Yea, my heart within me groaneth.

      Ant. Thou for whom the city weepeth!

      Ism. Thou too, doomed to all ill-fortune!

      Ant. By a loved hand thou hast perished.

      Ism. And a loved form thou hast slaughtered.

      Ant. Double woes are ours to tell of.

      Ism. Double woes too ours to look on.

      Ant. *Twofold sorrows from near kindred.

      Ism. *Sisters we by brothers standing.

      Ant. Terrible are they to tell of.

      Ism. Terrible are they to look on.

      Chor. Ah me, thou Destiny,

      Giver of evil gifts, and working woe,

      And thou dread spectral form of Œdipus,

      And swarth Erinnys too,

      A mighty one art thou.

      Ant. Ah me! ah me! woes dread to look on…

      Ism. Ye showed to me, returned from exile.

      Ant. Not, when he had slain, returned he.

      Ism. Nay, he, saved from exile, perished.

      Ant. Yea, I trow too well, he perished.

      Ism. And his brother, too, he murdered.

      Ant. Woeful, piteous, are those brothers!

      Ism. Woeful, piteous, all they suffered!

      Ant. Woes of kindred wrath enkindling!

      Ism. Saturate with threefold horrors!

      Ant. Terrible are they to tell of.

      Ism. Terrible are they to look on.

      Chor.