Ah me ... Ah....
The Chorus
For the awful Monarchs below.
Merope
str. 5.
Thou touchest the worst of my ills.
Oh had he fallen of old
At the Isthmus, in fight with his foes,
By Achaian, Arcadian spear!
Then had his sepulchre risen
On the high sea-bank, in the sight
Of either Gulf, and remain'd
All-regarded afar,
Noble memorial of worth
Of a valiant Chief, to his own.
The Chorus
ant. 4.
There rose up a cry in the streets
From the terrified people.
From the altar of Zeus, from the crowd, came a wail.
A blow, a blow was struck, and he fell,
Sullying his garment with dark-streaming blood;
While stood o'er him a Form—
Some Form
Merope
Ah me.... Ah....
The Chorus