O great and sovran Zeus, O Night, Great in glory, great in might, Who round Troïa's towers hast set, Enclosing all, thy close-meshed net, So that neither small nor great Can o'erleap the bondslave's fate, Or woe that maketh desolate; Zeus, the God of host and guest, Worker of all this confessed, He by me shall still be blest. Long since, 'gainst Alexandros He Took aim with bow that none may flee, That so his arrows onward driven, Nor miss their mark, nor pierce the heaven. STROPHE I Yes, they lie smitten low, If so one dare to speak, by stroke of Zeus; Well one may trace the blow; The doom that He decreed their soul subdues. And though there be that say The Gods for mortal men care not at all, Though they with reckless feet tread holiest way, These none will godly call. Now is it to the children's children clear Of those who, overbold, More than was meet, breathed Discord's spirit drear; While yet their houses all rich store did hold Beyond the perfect mean. Ah! may my lot be free from all that harms, My soul may nothing wean From calm contentment with her tranquil charms; For nought is there in wealth That serves as bulwark 'gainst the subtle stealth Of Destiny and Doom, For one who, in the pride of wanton mood, Spurns the great altar of the Right and Good. ANTISTROPHE I Yea, a strange impulse wild Urges him on, resistless in its might, Atè's far-scheming child. It knows no healing, is not hid in night, That mischief lurid, dark; Like bronze that will not stand the test of wear, A tarnished blackness in its hue we mark; And like a boy who doth a bird pursue Swift-floating on the wing, He to his country hopeless woe doth bring; And no God hears their prayer, But sendeth down the unrighteous to despair, Whose hands are stained with sin. So was it Paris came His entrance to the Atreidæ's home to win, And brought its queen to shame, To shame that brand indelible hath set Upon the board where host and guest were met. STROPHE II