Old Servant.
Parthenopæus, Atalanta's son.150
Antigone.
Now may Artemis, over the mountains hasting
With his mother, smite with her bow, and in death lay yon man low,
Who is hitherward come for my city's wasting!
Old Servant.
So be it, child: yet for the right they come;
Wherefore I dread lest God defend the right.
Antigone.
And where is he whom the selfsame mother bore
With me, to a doom of travail sore?
Dear ancient, where is Polyneikes, tell.
Old Servant.
He standeth near Adrastus, near the tomb
Of Niobê's unwedded daughters seven.160
See'st thou?
Antigone.
I see—not clearly—yet discern
Half-guessed, the outline of his frame and chest.
O that as wind-driven clouds swift-racing
I might speed with my feet through the air, and light
By my brother, mine own, and with arms embracing
Might hold but his dear neck close-enfolden—
So long an exile in dolorous plight!
Lo, how he flasheth in armour golden,
Like the morning shafts of the sun bright-blazing!
