Stasimon 3
CHOROS.
Wherefore to me, this fear —
975
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
980
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.
985
And from my eyes I learn —
Being myself my witness — their return.
Yet, all the same, without a lyre, my soul,
990
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.
995
But I pray — things false, from my hope, may fall
