By his own hand, ’tis manifest; the sword

Set in the ground, on which he fell, is proof.

Out on my blindness! All alone

Unwatched of friends he bled to death!

And I saw naught, heard naught, recked naught of thee!

Where lies he, Ajax, the self-willed,

The unbending, luckless as his name?

No eye shall look on him; this robe around

Shall lap him and enshroud from head to foot.

For none who knew him, not his dearest friend,

Could bear to see him, as the dark blood spurts

Up through his nostrils from the self-wrought wound.

What shall I do? What friend shall lift him up?

Where, where is Teucer? Timely would he come,

If come he might, to raise him and lay out

His brother’s corse. Ah me! How high thou stood’st,

My Ajax, and how low thou liest here!

A sight to melt to tears e’en foemen’s eyes!

Ah woeful hero, ’twas thy fate,

With that unyielding soul of thine,

In endless misery to decline,

And reach the goal of ruin, soon or late.

I knew it as I heard thee eve and morn

Against the Atridae vent

Thy passionate complaint,

A bitter cry of proud disdain and scorn.

Aye, then began my woes