Chorus: Woe, woe! Behold your dead sons' bones are brought hither;
take them, servants of your weak old mistress, for in me is no strength
left by reason of my mourning for my sons; time's comrade long have
I been, and many a tear for many a sorrow have I shed. For what sharper
pang wilt thou ever find for mortals than the sight of children dead?
Children: Poor mother mine, behold I bring my father's bones gathered
from the fire, a burden grief has rendered heavy, though this tiny
urn contains my all.
Chorus: Ah me! ah me! Why bear thy tearful load to the fond mother
of the dead, a handful of ashes in the stead of those who erst were
men of mark in Mycenae?
Children: Woe worth the hour! woe worth the day! Reft of my hapless
sire, a wretched orphan shall I inherit a desolate house, torn from
my father's arms.
Chorus: Woe is thee! Where is now the toil I spent upon my sons? what
thank have I for nightly watch? Where the mother's nursing care? the
sleepless vigils mine eyes have kept? the loving kiss upon my children's
brow?
Studies
