CHORAL HYMN. STROPHE I. Jove-born gods, benignly bending, Look, we pray, with eyes befriending, On these Argive halls! Ne'er may Mars, the wanton daring, With his shrill trump, joyless-blaring, Wrap, in wild flames, fiercely flaring, These Pelasgian walls! Go! thy gory harvest reaping Far from us: thy bloody weeping Distant tribes may know. Bless, O Jove, this Argive nation! They have heard the supplication Of thy suppliants low; Where the swooping Fate abased us, They with Mercy's vote upraised us From the prostrate woe! {239} ANTISTROPHE I. Not with the male, the stronger, erring, But, woman's weaker cause preferring, Stood their virtue proof: Wisely Jove, the Avenger, fearing, To the chastened eye appearing, High his front of wrath up-rearing 'Gainst the guilty roof. For heavily, heavily weighs the Alastor, Scapeless, and, with sore disaster, Sinks the sinner low. Bless, O Jove, this Argive nation, That knew their kindred's supplication, And saved them from the foe: And when their vows they pay, then surely Gifts from clean hands offered purely Thou in grace shalt know. STROPHE II. High these suppliant branches raising, Sisters, ancient Argos praising, Pour the grateful strain! Far from thy Pelasgian portals Dwell black Plague, from drooping mortals Ebbing life to drain! May'st thou see the crimson river From fierce home-bred slaughter, never Flowing o'er thy plain! Far from thee the youth-consuming Blossom-plucking strife! The harsh spouse of Aphrodite, Furious Mars in murder mighty, Where he sees thy beauty blooming, Spare his blood-smeared knife! ANTISTROPHE II. May a reverend priesthood hoary Belt thy shrines, their chiefest glory, With an holy band! By the bountiful libation, By the blazing pile, this nation Shall securely stand. Jove, the great All-ruler, fearing, {240} Jove, the stranger's stay, revering, Ye shall save the land; Jove, sure-throned above all cavil, Rules by ancient right, May just rulers never fail thee! Holy Hecate's aid avail thee,[n40] To thy mothers when in travail Sending labours light! STROPHE III. May no wasting march of ruin Work, O Argos, thine undoing! Never may'st thou hear Cries of Mars, the shrill, the lyreless! Ne'er may tearful moans, and quireless, Wake the sleeper's ear! Far from thee the shapes black-trooping Of disease, delightless-drooping! May the blazing death-winged arrow Of the Sun-god spare the marrow Of thy children dear!