Perchance, with shameless step and proud, He threads e'en now the Grecian crowd-- Whilst vengeance follows in pursuit, Gloats over his transgression's fruit. The very gods perchance he braves Upon the threshold of their fane,-- Joins boldly in the human waves That haste yon theatre to gain. For there the Grecian tribes appear, Fast pouring in from far and near; On close-packed benches sit they there,-- The stage the weight can scarcely bear. Like ocean-billows' hollow roar, The teaming crowds of living man Toward the cerulean heavens upsoar, In bow of ever-widening span. Who knows the nation, who the name, Of all who there together came? From Theseus' town, from Aulis' strand From Phocis, from the Spartan land, From Asia's distant coast, they wend, From every island of the sea, And from the stage they hear ascend The chorus's dread melody. Who, sad and solemn, as of old, With footsteps measured and controlled, Advancing from the far background, Circle the theatre's wide round. Thus, mortal women never move! No mortal home to them gave birth! Their giant-bodies tower above, High o'er the puny sons of earth. With loins in mantle black concealed, Within their fleshless bands they wield The torch, that with a dull red glows,-- While in their cheek no life-blood flows; And where the hair is floating wide And loving, round a mortal brow, Here snakes and adders are descried, Whose bellies swell with poison now. And, standing in a fearful ring, The dread and solemn chant they sing, That through the bosom thrilling goes, And round the sinner fetters throws. Sense-robbing, of heart-maddening power, The furies' strains resound through air The listener's marrow they devour,-- The lyre can yield such numbers ne'er. "Happy the man who, blemish-free, Preserves a soul of purity! Near him we ne'er avenging come, He freely o'er life's path may roam. But woe to him who, hid from view, Hath done the deed of murder base! Upon his heels we close pursue,-- We, who belong to night's dark race!" "And if he thinks to 'scape by flight, Winged we appear, our snare of might Around his flying feet to cast, So that he needs must fall at last. Thus we pursue him, tiring ne'er,-- Our wrath repentance cannot quell,-- On to the shadows, and e'en there We leave him not in peace to dwell!" Thus singing, they the dance resume, And silence, like that of the tomb, O'er the whole house lies heavily, As if the deity were nigh. And staid and solemn, as of old, Circling the theatre's wide round, With footsteps measured and controlled, They vanish in the far background.