Parodos
Toward — her father’s flying hounds — this House —
The sacrificers of the piteous
Brood and all, ere the birth: she hates the eagles’ feast.
Ah, Linos, say — ah, Linos, song of wail!
But may the good prevail!
Thus ready is the beauteous one with help
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To those small dewdrop-things fierce lions whelp,
And udder-loving litter of each brute
That roams the mead; and therefore makes she suit,
The fair one, for fulfilment to the end
Of things these signs portend —
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Which partly smile, indeed, but partly scowl —
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The phantasms of the fowl.
I call Ieïos Paian to avert
By any thwarting waftures, long and fast
Holdings from sail of ships:
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And sacrifice, another than the last,
She for herself precipitate —
Something unlawful, feast for no man’s lips,
Builder of quarrels, with the House cognate —
Having in awe no husband: for remains
A frightful, backward-darting in the path,
Wily house-keeping chronicler of wrath,
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That has to punish that old children’s fate!
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Such things did Kalchas, — with abundant gains
