Stands frothing at the lips, and after lies

All reeking in his madman's battlefield,

And sleeps nightlong. But with the dawn's revealed

The pity of his folly; then he sees

Himself at his fool's work. With shaking knees

He stands amid his slaughter, and his own

Adds to the wreck, plunging without a groan

Upon his planted sword. So Aias died

Lonely; and he who, never from his side

[15]

Removed, had shared his fame, the Lokrian,

Abode the fate foreordered in the plan

Which the Blind Women ignorantly weave.

But think not on the dead, who die and leave

A memory more fragrant than their deeds,

But to the remnant rather and their needs

Give thought with me. What comfort in their swords

Have they, robbed of the might of two such lords

As Peleus' son and Telamon's? What art

Can drive the blood back to the stricken heart?

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