THE SUPPLIANTS {219} [CHORUS, _entering the stage in procession. March time._ CHORUS. Jove, the suppliant's high protector,[n1] Look from Heaven, benignly favouring Us the suppliant band, swift-oared Hither sailing, from the seven mouths Of the fat fine-sanded Nile![n2] From the land that fringes Syria, Land divine, in flight we came, Not by public vote forth-driven, Not by taint of blood divorced From our native state,[f3] but chastely Our abhorrent foot withdrawing From impure ungodly wedlock With Ægyptus' sons, too nearly Cousined with ourselves. For wisely, This our threatened harm well-weighing, Danaus, our sire, prime counsellor, And leader of our sistered band, Timely chose this least of sorrows O'er the salt-sea wave to flee; And here on Argive soil to plant us, Whence our race its vaunted spring Drew divinely, when great Jove Gently thrilled the brize-stung heifer[n3] With his procreant touch, and breathed Godlike virtue on her womb. Where on Earth should we hope refuge On more friendly ground than this, In our hands these green boughs bearing Wreathed with precatory wool?[f4] Ye blissful gods supremely swaying[n4] Land and city, and lucid streams; And ye in sepulchres dark, severely {220} Worshipped 'neath the sunless ground; And thou, the third, great Jove the Saviour, Guardian of all holy homes, With your spirit gracious-wafted, Breathe fair welcome on this band Of suppliant maids. But in the depth Of whirling waves engulph the swarm Of insolent youths, Ægyptus' sons, Them, and their sea-cars swiftly oared, Ere this slimy shore receive Their hated footprint. Let them labour, With wrath-spitting seas confronted: By the wild storm wintry-beating, Thunder-crashing, lightning flashing, By the tyrannous blast shower-laden Let them perish, ere they mount Marriage beds which right refuses,[n5] Us, their father's brother's daughters To their lawless yoke enthralling! [_The_ CHORUS _assemble in a band round the centre of the Orchestra, and sing the Choral Hymn._ CHORAL HYMN. STROPHE I. Give ear to our prayer, we implore thee, Thou son, and the mother that bore thee-- The calf and the heifer divine![f5] From afar be thine offspring's avenger, Even thou, once a beautiful ranger O'er these meads with the grass-cropping kine! And thou, whom she bore to her honor, When the breath of the Highest was on her, And the touch of the finger divine; Thine ear, mighty god, we implore thee To the prayer of thine offspring incline!