Stasimon 3
(With misery freighted over-full)
1010
Nor has fear whelmed the hull.
Then too the gift of Zeus,
Even from the furrows’ yield for yearly use
Has done away with famine, the disease;
1015
But blood of man to earth once falling-deadly, black —
Who may, by singing spells, call back?
Zeus had not else stopped one who rightly knew
1020
The way to bring the dead again.
But, did not an appointed Fate constrain
The Fate from gods, to bear no more than due,
My heart, outstripping what tongue utters,
Would have all out: which now, in darkness, mutters
1025
Moodily grieved, nor ever hopes to find
How she a word in season may unwind
From out the enkindling mind.
