Sad it were to see the daughters,
And the sonless mothers grey,
Of old Thebes, with hair dishevelled,
And rent vestments, even as horses
Dragged by the mane, a helpless prey;
Sad to hear the victors’ clamour
Mingling with the captive’s moan,
And the frequent-clanking fetter
Struggling with the dying groan.
ANTISTROPHE II.