_Herald._ Hail, soil of this my Argive fatherland. Now in the light of the tenth year I reach thee, Though many hopes are shattered, gaining one. For never did I think in Argive land To die, and share the tomb that most I craved. 490 Now hail! thou land; and hail! thou light of day: Zeus our great ruler, and thou Pythian king, No longer darting arrows from thy bow.[308] Full hostile wast thou by Scamandros' banks, Now be thou Saviour, yea, and Healer found, O king Apollo! and the Gods of war, These I invoke; my patron Hermes too, Dear herald, whom all heralds reverence,— Those heroes, too, that sent us,[309]—graciously To welcome back the host that war has spared. 500 Hail, O ye royal dwellings, home beloved! Ye solemn thrones, and Gods who face the sun![310] If e'er of old, with cheerful glances now After long time receive our king's array. For he is come, in darkness bringing light To you and all, our monarch, Agamemnon. Salute him with all grace; for so 'tis meet, Since he hath dug up Troïa with the spade Of Zeus the Avenger, and the plain laid waste; Fallen their altars and the shrines of Gods; 510 The seed of all the land is rooted out, This yoke of bondage casting over Troïa, Our chief, the elder of the Atreidæ, comes, A man full blest, and worthiest of high honour Of all that are. For neither Paris' self, Nor his accomplice city now can boast Their deed exceeds its punishment. For he, Found guilty on the charge of rape and theft,[311] Hath lost his prize and brought his father's house, With lands and all, to waste and utter wreck; And Priam's sons have double forfeit paid.[312] 520 _Chor._ Joy, joy, thou herald of the Achæan host! _Her._ All joy is mine: I shrink from death no more. _Chor._ Did love for this thy fatherland so try thee? _Her._ So that mine eyes weep tears for very joy,* _Chor._ Disease full sweet then this ye suffered from ... _Her._ How so? When taught, I shall thy meaning master. _Chor._ Ye longed for us who yearned for you in turn. _Her._ Say'st thou this land its yearning host yearned o'er? _Chor._ Yea, so that oft I groaned in gloom of heart. _Her._ Whence came these bodings that an army hates? 530 _Chor._ Silence I've held long since a charm for ill. _Her._ How, when your lords were absent, feared ye any? _Chor._ To use thy words, death now would welcome be.