Thou confessest the prize
In the rushing, thundering, mad,
Cloud-enveloped, obscure,
Unapplauded, unsung
Race of calamity, mine?
The Chorus
None can truly claim that
Mournful preëminence, not
Thou.
Merope
Fate gives it, ah me!
The Chorus
Not, above all, in the doubts,
Double and clashing, that hang——
Merope
ant. 2.
What then?
Seems it lighter, my loss,
If, perhaps, unpierced by the sword,
My child lies in his jagg'd
Sunless prison of rock,
On the black wave borne to and fro?
The Chorus