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Aeschylus, agamemnon<br />
strophe 6<br />
So, trailing on the earth her robe of saffron dye,<br />
With one last piteous dart from her beseeching eye.<br />
Those that should smite she smote<br />
Fair, silent, as a pictur'd form, but fain<br />
To plead, Is all forgot?<br />
How oft those halls of old,<br />
Wherein my sire high feast did hold,<br />
Rang to the virginal soft strain,<br />
When I, a stainless child,<br />
Sang from pure lips and undefiled,<br />
Sang of my sire, and all<br />
His honoured life, and how on him should fall<br />
Heaven's highest gift and gain!<br />
antistrophe 6<br />
And then-but I beheld not, nor can tell,<br />
What further fate befell:<br />
But this is sure, that Calchas' boding strain<br />
Can ne'er be void or vain.<br />
This wage from justice' hand do sufferers earn,<br />
The future to discern:<br />
And yet-farewell, O secret of To-morrow!<br />
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