far-shooting Phœbus. The aged suppliant, Greece addressed—but most addressed the sons of Atreus: The two leaders of the nations in war!
"Sons of Atreus!" he said: "Other warriors of Achaia hear! May the gods crown all your desires! May the deathless dwellers of heaven give ear—and grant to you, the city of Priam: With a safe return to your native land. But release my much-loved daughter. Receive her ransom from these hands. Revere the son of thundering Jove: Apollo, who shoots from afar!"
Applauding Greece arose around. The holy man they all revered. They wished to take the splendid prize. But the soul of Agamemnon refused. Him he dismissed with contempt,—and thus added threats to his rage—"Take heed, old man, lest in my wrath-while here thou loiter'st-while hereafter thou presum'st to return. Take heed, I say, old man! Lest that scepter, that wreath of thy god—should not in ought avail. Her I will never release—till age her lovely form invades—within our lofty halls in Argos—far from her native land: While she runs o'er the web—and ascends the bed of her lord. Hence! Provoke me not—that safe thou may'st still retire.”
He, frowning, spoke: The old man feared—and shrunk from his high commands. Sad, silent, slow, he took his way—along the wide-resounding main. Apart and distant from the host—he poured his mournful soul in prayer: He poured it forth to bowyer Phœbus—whom the long-haired Latona bore.
"Hear, bearer of the splendid bow! Guardian of Chrysa, of Cilla, the divine! Thou that
