Stasimon 3
CHOROS.
Wherefore to me, this fear —
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Groundedly stationed here
Fronting my heart, the portent-watcher — flits she?
Wherefore should prophet-play
The uncalled and unpaid lay,
Nor — having spat forth fear, like bad dreams — sits she
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On the mind’s throne beloved — well-suasive Boldness?
For time, since, by a throw of all the hands,
The boat’s stern-cables touched the sands,
Has past from youth to oldness, —
When under Ilion rushed the ship-borne bands.
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And from my eyes I learn —
Being myself my witness — their return.
Yet, all the same, without a lyre, my soul,
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Itself its teacher too, chants from within
Erinus’ dirge, not having now the whole
Of Hope’s dear boldness: nor my inwards sin —
The heart that’s rolled in whirls against the mind
Justly presageful of a fate behind.
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But I pray — things false, from my hope, may fall
Into the fate that’s not-fulfilled-at-all!
Especially at least, of health that’s great
The term’s insatiable: for, its weight
— A neighbour, with a common wall between —
And destiny, her course pursuing straight,
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Has struck man’s ship against a reef unseen.
Now, when a portion, rather than the treasure,
Fear casts from sling, with peril in right measure,
It has not sunk — the universal freight,
(With misery freighted over-full)
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Nor has fear whelmed the hull.
Then too the gift of Zeus,
Even from the furrows’ yield for yearly use
Has done away with famine, the disease;
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But blood of man to earth once falling-deadly, black —
Who may, by singing spells, call back?
Zeus had not else stopped one who rightly knew
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The way to bring the dead again.
But, did not an appointed Fate constrain
The Fate from gods, to bear no more than due,
My heart, outstripping what tongue utters,
Would have all out: which now, in darkness, mutters
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Moodily grieved, nor ever hopes to find
How she a word in season may unwind
From out the enkindling mind.