And now, O Queen, who tak'st thy name From Tyndareus of ancient fame, Our Clytæmnestra whom we own As rightly sharing Argos' throne! What tidings joyous hast thou heard, Token true or flattering word, That thou send'st to every shrine Solemn pomp in stately line,— Shrines of Gods who reign in light, Or those who dwell in central night, Who in Heaven for aye abide, Or o'er the Agora preside. Lo, thy gifts on altars blaze, And here and there through heaven's wide ways The torches fling their fiery rays, Fed by soft and suasive spell Of the clear oil, flowing well From the royal treasure-cell. Telling what of this thou may, All that's meet to us to say, Do thou our haunting cares allay, Cares which now bring sore distress, While now bright hope, with power to bless, From out the sacrifice appears, And wardeth off our restless fears, The boding sense of coming fate, That makes the spirit desolate. STROPHE I Yes, it is mine to tell What omens to our leaders then befell, Giving new strength for war, (For still though travelled far In life, by God's great gift to us belong The suasive powers of song,) To tell how those who bear O'er all Achæans sway in equal share, Ruling in one accord The youth of Hellas that own each as lord, Were sent with mighty host By mighty birds against the Troïan coast, Kings of the air to kings of men appearing Near to the palace, on the right hand veering; On spot seen far and near, They with their talons tear A pregnant hare with all her unborn young, All her life's course in death's deep darkness flung. Oh raise the bitter cry, the bitter wail; Yet pray that good prevail! ANTISTROPHE I And then the host's wise seer Stood gazing on the Atreidæ standing near, Of diverse mood, and knew Those who the poor hare slew, And those who led the host with shield and spear, And spake his omens clear: “One day this host shall go, And Priam's city in the dust lay low, And all the kine and sheep Countless, which they before their high towers keep, Fate shall with might destroy: Only take heed that no curse mar your joy, Nor blunt the edge of curb that Troïa waiteth, Smitten too soon, for Artemis still hateth The wingèd hounds that own Her father on his throne, Who slay the mother with the young unborn, And looks upon the eagle's feast with scorn. Ah! raise the bitter cry, the bitter wail; Yet pray that good prevail. EPODE