For she, the Fair One, though her mercy shields The lion's whelps, like dew-drops newly shed, And yeanling young of beasts that roam the fields, Yet prays her sire fulfil these omens dread, The good, the evil too. And now I call on him, our Healer true, Lest she upon the Danai send delays That keep our ships through many weary days, Urging a new strange rite, Unblest alike by man and God's high law, Evil close clinging, working sore despite, Marring a wife's true awe. For still there lies in wait, Fearful and ever new, Watching the hour its eager thirst to sate, Vengeance on those who helpless infants slew.” Such things, ill mixed with good, great Calchas spake, As destined by the birds' strange auguries; And we too now our echoing answer make In loud and woeful cries: Oh raise the bitter cry, the bitter wail; Yet pray that good prevail. STROPHE II O Zeus, whoe'er Thou be, If that name please thee well, By that I call on Thee; For weighing all things else I fail to tell Of any name but Zeus; If once for all I seek Of all my haunting, troubled thoughts a truce, That name I still must speak. ANTISTROPHE II For He who once was great, Full of the might to war, Hath lost his high estate; And He who followed now is driven afar, Meeting his Master too: But if one humbly pay With 'bated breath to Zeus his honour due, He walks in wisdom's way,— STROPHE III To Zeus, who men in wisdom's path doth train, Who to our mortal race Hath given the fixèd law that pain is gain; For still through his high grace True counsel falleth on the heart like dew, In deep sleep of the night, The boding thoughts that out of ill deeds grew; This too They work who sit enthronèd in their might. ANTISTROPHE III And then the elder leader of great fame Who ruled the Achæans' ships, Not bold enough a holy seer to blame With words from reckless lips, But tempered to the fate that on him fell;— And when the host was vexed With tarryings long, scant stores, and surging swell, Chalkis still far off seen, and baffled hopes perplexed; STROPHE IV And stormy blasts that down from Strymon sweep, And breed sore famine with the long delay, Hurl forth our men upon the homeless deep On many a wandering way, Sparing nor ships, nor ropes, nor sailing gear, Doubling the weary months, and vexing still The Argive host with fear. Then when as mightier charm for that dread ill, Hard for our ships to bear, From the seer's lips did “Artemis” resound, The Atreidæ smote their staves upon the ground, And with no power to check, shed many a bitter tear.