Stasimon 4
[Choral]
Whose prowess? Say!—Odysseus.—Nay,
DIVERS GUARDS
Praise not the secret stabbing of a thief!
CHORUS.
He came once, of old,
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Up thro’ the city throng,
Foam on his lips, a-cold,
Huddled in rags that hung
Hid in his mantle’s pleat;
His face grimed and scored,
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A priest of wandering feet,
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Who begged his bread in the street.
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He cast on the brother kings
Like one long hurt, who nurseth anger sore;
Would that a curse, yea, would
The uttermost wrath of God
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Had held those feet from walking Ilion’s shore!
DIVERS GUARDS
Odysseus or another, ’tis the guard
Will weep for this. Aye, Hector will be hard.—
What will he say?—He will suspect.—Suspect?
