And now the hosts, on mutual slaughter bent,435
Stand with their weapons balanced in their hands:
Peace wins the day; the threat'ning points are lowered;
The swords are sheathed. But in the brothers' hands
They still are poised. The frantic mother now,
Her white hair torn with grieving, speaks to them,440
Beseaches their reluctant, stubborn wills,
And wets their knees with tears. Too long they bide:
Such halting bodes the mother's prayers denied.