Where from throats of the swans to the Muses upwelleth
Song-service still.
(Ant. 1)
O tears on my cheeks that as fountains plashing
Were rained that day,
When I sailed, from our towers that in ruin were crashing,
In our galleys, the prey
Of the oars of the foe, of the spears that had caught me, 1110
And for gold in the balances weighed men bought me,
And unto a barbarous home they brought me,
To the handmaid-array
Of Atreides' daughter, who sacrificeth
To the Huntress-queen
On the altars whence reek of the slain Greeks riseth!
Ah, the man that hath seen
Bliss never, full gladly his lot would I borrow!
For he faints not 'neath ills, who was cradled in sorrow;
On his night of affliction may dawn bright morrow:[1]
But whom ruin, in happiness ambushed, surpriseth,
Ah, their stroke smiteth keen!
(Str. 2)
And the fifty oars shall dip of the Argive gallant ship
That shall waft thee to the homeland shore;
And the waxèd pipe shall ring of the mountain Shepherd-king
To enkindle them that tug the strenuous oar;
And the Seer shall wing their fleetness, even Phœbus, by the sweetness
Of the seven-stringed lyre in his hand;
- ↑ Retaining reading of MSS.
