His pledge is forfeited;[n49] his hand hath reaped Clean bare the harvest of all bliss from Troy. Doubly they suffer for a double crime. CHORUS. Hail soldier herald, how farest thou? HERALD. Right well! So well that I could bless the gods and die. CHORUS. Doubtless thy love of country tried thy heart? HERALD. To see these shores I weep for very joy. CHORUS. And that soul-sickness sweetly held thee? HERALD. How? Instruct my wit to comprehend thy words. CHORUS. Smitten with love of them that much loved thee. HERALD. Say'st thou? loved Argos us as we loved Argos? CHORUS. Ofttimes we sorrowed from a sunless soul. HERALD. How so? Why should the thought of the host have clouded Thy soul with sadness? CHORUS. Sorrow not causeless came; But I have learned to drug all woes by silence. HERALD. Whom should'st thou quail before, the chiefs away? CHORUS. I could have used thy phrase, and wished to die. HERALD. Die now, an' thou wilt, for joy! The rolling years Have given all things a prosperous end, though some Were hard to bear; for who, not being a god, Can hope to live long years of bliss unbroken? A weary tale it were to tell the tithe Of all our hardships; toils by day, by night, Harsh harbourage, hard hammocks, and scant sleep. No sun without new troubles, and new groans, {59} Shone on our voyage; and when at length we landed, Our woes were doubled; 'neath the hostile walls, On marshy meads night-sprinkled by the dews, We slept, our clothes rotted with drenching rain, And like wild beasts with shaggy-knotted hair. Why should I tell bird-killing winter's sorrows, Long months of suffering from Idéan snows, Then summer's scorching heat, when noon beheld The waveless sea beneath the windless air In sleep diffused; these toils have run their hour. The dead care not to rise; their roll our grief Would muster o'er in vain; and we who live Vainly shall fret at the cross strokes of fate. Henceforth to each harsh memory of the past Farewell! we who survive this long-drawn war Have gains to count that far outweigh the loss. Well may we boast in the face of the shining sun, O'er land and sea our winged tidings wafting, THE ACHÆAN HOST HATH CAPTURED TROY; and now On the high temples of the gods we hang These spoils, a shining grace, there to remain An heritage for ever.[n50] These things to hear Shall men rejoice, and with fair praises laud The state and its great generals, laud the grace Of Jove the Consummator. I have said. CHORUS. I own thy speech the conqueror; for a man Can never be too old to learn good news, And though thy words touch Clytemnestra most, Joy to the Atridan's halls is wealth to me.