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Aeschylus, agamemnon<br />
Their breath, and lords of Troy, each in his Trojan grave.<br />
antistrophe 3<br />
Therefore for each and all the city's breast<br />
Is heavy with a wrath supprest,<br />
As deeply and deadly as a curse more loud<br />
Flung by the common crowd:<br />
And, brooding deeply, doth my soul await<br />
Tidings of coming fate,<br />
Buried as yet in darkness' womb.<br />
For not forgetful is the high gods' doom<br />
Against the sons of carnage: all too long<br />
Seems the unjust to prosper and be strong,<br />
Till the dark Furies come,<br />
And smite with stern reversal all his home,<br />
Down into dim obstruction-he is gone,<br />
And help and hope, among the lost, is none!<br />
O'er him who vaunteth an exceeding fame,<br />
Impends a woe condign;<br />
The vengeful bolt upon his eyes doth flame,<br />
Sped from the hand divine.<br />
This bliss be mine, ungrudged of God, to feel-<br />
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