There came a man from Troy, and told [_Strophe_ 2. Here in the haven, How, orb on orb, to strike with cold The Trojan, o'er that targe of gold, Dread shapes were graven. All round the level rim thereof Perseus, on wingèd feet, above The long seas hied him; The Gorgon's wild and bleeding hair He lifted; and a herald fair, He of the wilds, whom Maia bare, God's Hermes, flew beside him. [_Antistrophe_ 2. But midmost, where the boss rose higher, A sun stood blazing, And wingèd steeds, and stars in choir, Hyad and Pleiad, fire on fire, For Hector's dazing: Across the golden helm, each way, Two taloned Sphinxes held their prey, Song-drawn to slaughter: And round the breastplate ramping came A mingled breed of lion and flame, Hot-eyed to tear that steed of fame That found Pirênê's water. The red red sword with steeds four-yoked [_Epode_. Black-maned, was graven, That laboured, and the hot dust smoked Cloudwise to heaven. Thou Tyndarid woman! Fair and tall Those warriors were, and o'er them all One king great-hearted, Whom thou and thy false love did slay: Therefore the tribes of Heaven one day For these thy dead shall send on thee An iron death: yea, men shall see The white throat drawn, and blood's red spray, And lips in terror parted. [_As they cease, there enters from the left a very old man, bearing a lamb, a wineskin, and a wallet_. OLD MAN. Where is my little Princess? Ah, not now; But still my queen, who tended long ago The lad that was her father.... How steep-set These last steps to her porch! But faint not yet: Onward, ye failing knees and back with pain Bowed, till we look on that dear face again. [_Enter_ ELECTRA. Ah, daughter, is it thou?--Lo, here I am, With gifts from all my store; this suckling lamb Fresh from the ewe, green crowns for joyfulness, And creamy things new-curdled from the press. And this long-storèd juice of vintages Forgotten, cased in fragrance: scant it is, But passing sweet to mingle nectar-wise With feebler wine.--Go, bear them in; mine eyes... Where is my cloak?--They are all blurred with tears. ELECTRA. What ails thine eyes, old friend? After these years Doth my low plight still stir thy memories? Or think'st thou of Orestes, where he lies In exile, and my father? Aye, long love Thou gavest him, and seest the fruit thereof Wasted, for thee and all who love thee! OLD MAN.