But the dread doom of mortals, the anguish heart-rending—
Never minstrel by music hath breathed on them peace,
Nor by song with his harp-notes in harmony blending;
Albeit of these cometh death's dark ending
Unto many a home that is wrecked of these.
And yet were it surely a boon to bring healing
Of sorrow to mortals with song: but in vain 200
Mid the fulness of feasting ring voices clear-pealing,
And the banquet itself hath a glamour, concealing
From mortals their doom, flinging spells over pain.
Chorus.
I have heard it, the sigh-laden cry of the daughter
Of Kolchis, the woe-shrilling anguish of wailing
For the traitor to love who with false vows caught her,
Who in strength of her wrongs chideth Heaven, assailing
The Oath-queen of Zeus, who with cords all-prevailing
Forth haled her, and brought her o'er star-litten water, 210
Where the brine-mists hover o'er Pontus' Key,
Unto Hellas far over the boundless sea.
Medea.
Corinthian dames, I have come forth my doors
Lest ye should blame me. Many folk I know 215
Accounted haughty, some, for proud staid mien,[1]
Some, stranger-shy:[2] and some, that softly go,
