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,
