They have their portion! poor, poor souls!
A little fathom-span
Of ground, illiberal fortune doles;
No more the gods give man;
And 'neath them lying stark and cold
Earth's wealth unplumbed, her gems and gold.
Wail for the wreath of victory
That crowns their race with woe!
Wail for the Curse's triumph-cry,
Shrieked for their overthrow!
Wail for the line that broke and fled—
And found a refuge with the dead!
There stands a trophy at the gate.
Where breast to breast they fell;
The votive offering of Hate
And Havoc hot from hell;
There their ill star its strength essayed,
Nor till both sank its fury stayed!
THE DIRGE.
Antigone.
Smiter smitten!
Ismene.
Slayer slain!
Antigone.
Blood on thy spear!
Ismene.
On thy breast that stain!
Antigone.
Weep the wrong!
