Lo! the tenth year now is passing 40 Since, of Priam great avengers, Menelaos, Agamemnon, Double-throned and doubled-sceptred, Power from sovran Zeus deriving— Mighty pair of the Atreidæ— Raised a fleet of thousand vessels Of the Argives from our country, Potent helpers in their warfare, Shouting cry of Ares fiercely; E'en as vultures shriek who hover, Wheeling, whirling o'er their eyrie, 50 In wild sorrow for their nestlings, With their oars of stout wings rowing, Having lost the toil that bound them To their callow fledglings' couches. But on high One,—or Apollo, Zeus, or Pan,—the shrill cry hearing, Cry of birds that are his clients,[273] Sendeth forth on men transgressing, Erinnys, slow but sure avenger; So against young Alexandros[274] Atreus' sons the great King sendeth, Zeus, of host and guest protector: 60 He, for bride with many a lover, Will to Danai give and Troïans Many conflicts, men's limbs straining, When the knee in dust is crouching, And the spear-shaft in the onset Of the battle snaps asunder. But as things are now, so are they, So, as destined, shall the end be. Nor by tears, nor yet libations Shall he soothe the wrath unbending Caused by sacred rites left fireless.[275] 70 We, with old frame little honoured, Left behind that host are staying, Resting strength that equals childhood's On our staff: for in the bosom *Of the boy, life's young sap rushing, Is of old age but the equal; Ares not as yet is found there: And the man in age exceeding, When the leaf is sere and withered, Goes with three feet on his journey;[276] 80 Not more Ares-like than boyhood, Like a day-seen dream he wanders. [_Enter_ CLYTÆMNESTRA, _followed by the procession of torch-bearers_ Thou, of Tyndareus the daughter, Queen of Argos, Clytæmnestra, What has happened? what news cometh? What perceiving, on what tidings Leaning, dost thou put in motion All this solemn, great procession? Of the Gods who guard the city, Those above and those beneath us, Of the heaven, and of the market, 90 Lo! with thy gifts blaze the altars; And through all the expanse of Heaven, Here and there, the torch-fire rises, With the flowing, pure persuasion Of the holy unguent nourished, *And the chrism rich and kingly From the treasure-store's recesses. Telling what of this thou canst tell, What is right for thee to utter, Be a healer of my trouble, Trouble now my soul disturbing, 100 *While anon fond hope displaying Sacrificial signs propitious, Wards off care that no rest knoweth, Sorrow mind and heart corroding. [_The Chorus, taking their places round the central thymele, begin their song_[277]