Chorus (cont.)
O joy, when Ajax has forgot once more
His woe, and turns the godhead to adore!
Due rites he pays with contrite heart and lowly.
O all-devouring time, what miracles
Thou workest! lo, his feud forgotten wholly,
Ajax at peace with the Atridae dwells.
Messenger
Teucer is here—that, friends, is my first news—
Back from the Mysian highlands newly come.
But as he neared headquarters in mid camp,
He was beset with universal shouts
Of obloquy; they spied him from afar,
And crowding round him as he nearer came,
Rained on him taunts from this side and from that,
Railed at the kinsman of the crazy wretch,
Plotter of mischief ’gainst the host—“To die
By stoning, mauled and mangled, is thy doom;
Think not to ’scape it, villain,” so they cried.
It came to such a pass that swords were drawn
And brandished; then the riot, having run
To the very verge of bloodshed, was allayed
By intervention of the elder men.
But where is Ajax? Him I fain would tell;
’Tis meet your lords should know whate’er befell.
Chorus
He is not within; but now he went abroad,
Yoking some new resolve to his new mood.
Messenger
Alack, alack!
Too late then on this errand was I sent,
Or I, a laggard, have arrived too late.