Epeisodion 2
LEADER.
All hail, great King! A whelp indeed
Is born in Thracia’s lion fold,
380
Whose leap shall make strong cities bleed.
Behold his body girt with gold,
And hark the pride of bells along
The frontlet of that targe’s hold.
CHORUS.
A God, O Troy, a God and more!
385
’Tis Ares’ self, this issue strong
385
Of Strymon and the Muse of song,
Whose breath is fragrant on thy shore!
RHESUS.
Lord Hector, Prince of Ilion, noble son
Of noble sires, all hail! Long years have run
Since last we greeted, and ’tis joy this day
To see thy fortunes firm and thine array
390
Camped at the foe’s gate. Here am I to tame
That foe for thee, and wrap his ships in flame.
HECTOR.
Thou child of Music and the Thracian flood,
Strymonian Rhesus, truth is alway good
In Hector’s eyes. I wear no double heart.
395
Long, long ago thou shouldst have borne thy part
In Ilion’s labours, not have left us here,
For all thy help, to sink beneath the spear.
Why didst thou—not for lack of need made plain!—
Not come, not send, not think of us again?
400
What grave ambassadors prayed not before
Thy throne, what herald knelt not at thy door?
What pride of gifts did Troy not send to thee?
And thou, a lord of Barbary even as we,
Thou, brother of our blood, like one at sup
405
Who quaffs his fill and flings away the cup,
405
