CLYTEMNESTRA. The wide sea flows; and who shall dry it up? The ocean flows, and in its vasty depths Is brewed the purple's die, as silver precious, A tincture ever-fresh for countless robes. But Agamemnon's house is not a beggar; With this, and with much more the gods provide us; And purple I had vowed enough to spread The path of many triumphs, had a god Given me such 'hest oracular to buy The ransom of thy life. We have thee now, Both root and trunk, a tree rich leafage spreading To shade this mansion from the Sirian dog. Welcome, thou double blessing! to this hearth That bringest heat against keen winter's cold, And coolness when the sweltering Jove prepares Wine from the crudeness of the bitter grape; Enter the house, made perfect by thy presence. Jove, Jove, the perfecter! perfect thou my vow,[n66] And thine own counsels quickly perfect thou! [_Exeunt_. CHORAL HYMN. STROPHE I. Whence these shapes of fear that haunt me? These hovering portents why? Is my heart a seer inspired, To chaunt unbidden and unhired[n67] {70} Notes of dark prophecy? Blithe confidence, my bosom's lord,[f19] That swayed the doubtful theme, Arise, and with thy clear command Chase the vain-vexing dream! Long years have rolled; and still I fear, As when the Argive band Unloosed their cables from the shore,[n68] And eager plied the frequent oar To the far Ilian strand. ANTISTROPHE I. Now they return: my vouching eyes To prop my faith conspire, And yet my heart, in self-taught hymns, As with a Fury's burden brims, And will not own the lyre. I fear, I fear: the bold-faced Hope Hath left my heart all drear; And my thought, not idly tossed within, Feels evil creeping near. For the heart hath scent of things to come And prophesies by fear; And yet I pray, may all conspire To prove my boding heart a liar, And me a foolish seer. STROPHE II. Full-blooded health, that in the veins With lusty pulses hotly wells, Shall soon have check. Disease beside it Wall to wall, ill-sundered, dwells. The proud trireme, with sudden shock, In its mid career, on a sunken rock Strikes, and all is lost. Yet there is hope; the ship may rein Its plunge, from whelming ruin free, If with wise sling the merchant fling Into the greedy sea A part to save the whole. And thus Jove, that two-handed stores for us, In our mid woe may pause, {71} Heap gifts on gifts from yearly furrows, And save the house from swamping sorrows, And lean starvation's jaws.