What boots it to forestal our date of woe?
Come weal at last!
So prays, these mischiefs past,
Of Apia's land this one sole guard and stay.
Hail Clytemnestra! Hither am I come
Thy majesty revering. For 'tis meet
When the male throne is empty, that we pay 250
To our high captain's consort honour due.
If thou hast heard auspicious news, or not,
That with joy-vouching hope thou lightest up
The altar fires, I, as a friend, would know,—
Yet shall thy silence nought unkind be deemed.
Clytemnestra.
Joy's harbinger, be radiant Morning born
From kindly, mother Night! So runs the saw.
But thou of joy beyond all hope shalt hear,
For Priam's city have the Argives won.
Chorus.
How queen I through unbelief I miss thy word.
Clytemnestra.
Troy is in Argive hands; now speak I plain? 260
Chorus.
Joy, stealing o'er my heart, calls forth the tear.
Clytemnestra.
'Tis true, thine eye thy loyalty bewrays.
