Stasimon 3
[Choral]
Of the face of dead Itys that stunned her,
ANOTHER.
Of grief grown to music and wonder:
550
Most changeful and old and undying
550
The nightingale calls.
550
And on Ida the shepherds are waking
Their flocks for the upland. I hear
The skirl of a pipe very distant.
And sleep, it falls slow and insistent.
’Tis perilous sweet when the breaking
555
DIVERS GUARDS
Why have we still no word nor sign
Of that scout in the Argive line?
ANOTHER.
I know not; he is long delayed.
God send he trip not on the blade
560
Of some Greek in an ambuscade!
It may be. I am half afraid.
LEADER.
Our time is past! Up, men, and tell
The fifth watch. ’Tis the Lycians’ spell
Now, as the portions fairly fell.
