Of fortune smoothly glides, fondly they trust
That the same fortune still will waft them on.
So now to me are all things full of fear;
Woes sent of Heaven are present to mine eyes;
Rings in mine ear a cry, no pæan strain:
Such terror from these evils scares my soul.
Wherefore without my cars and wonted pomp,
Once more I issue from my home, and bring 610
To my son's royal sire, libations kind,
Whate'er is soothing to the honoured dead.
White milk, sweet draught from heifer undefiled;
The flower-distiller's dew, translucent honey,
And crystal water drawn from virgin spring;
Here joyance too I bring of ancient vine,
Draught unadulterate from mother wild;
From pale green olive-tree, that while it lives
With constant leafage blooms, this odorous fruit;
And wreathed flowers, brood of all-teeming Earth. 620
But, O my friends, chant ye well-omened hymns
O'er these libations offered to the dead;
Darius' mighty ghost do ye invoke,
While I, these honours, which the earth shall drink,
Myself will send to deities below.
Chorus.
O royal lady, to whom Persians bow,
Do thou, to halls below, libations send,
While we in solemn lay
Those who escort the dead will pray
