_Elect._ Not even 'neath the walls
Of Troïa, O my sire,
With those the spear hath slain,
Would I have had thee lie
By fair Scamandros' stream:
No, this my prayer shall be
That those who slew thee fall,
*By their own kin struck down, 360
That one might hear far off,
Untried by woes like this,
The fate that brings inevitable death.
_Chor._ Of blessings more than golden, O my child,
Greater than greatest fortune, or the bliss
Of those beyond the North[425] thou speakest now;
For this is in thy grasp;
But hold; e'en now this thud of double scourge[426]
Finds its way on to him;
Already these find helpers 'neath the earth,
But of those rulers whom we loathe and hate
Unholy are the hands: 370
And children gain the day.