Stasimon 4
CHOROS.
To me who hear — a wonder!
KASSANDRA.
Ah me, the toils — the toils of the city
The wholly destroyed: ah, pity,
Of the sacrificings my father made
Much slaughter of grass-fed flocks — that afforded no cure
That the city should not, as it does now, the burthen endure!
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But I, with the soul on fire,
Soon to the earth shall cast me and expire.
CHOROS.
To things, on the former consequent,
Again hast thou given vent:
And ’t is some evil-meaning fiend doth move thee,
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Heavily falling from above thee,
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To melodize thy sorrows — else, in singing,
Calamitous, death-bringing!
I am without resource to apprehend
