(So, as her mother told,
I tell that tale of old;)
And there the sad, pale face of sorrowing maid,
Thus wooed and won with strife,
Awaits her lot as wife,
Like lonely heifer wandering far in wildest glade.
633–662.
Stroph. I.
Ο ye whose dwelling lies
By the warm springs that to the harbour flow,
Or where the tall rocks rise
And cliffs of Œta; ye who wont to go
Hard by the Melian lake,
And coasts where roams the golden-arrowed queen,
Where Hellenes counsel take,
And there at Pylæ famed their agora convene,
Antistroph. I.
Quickly to you the flute
Shall raise in music sweet no tuneless strain,
But one that well may suit
The answering lyre from out the Muses' train:
For now Alcmena's son,
Who Zeus his father calls, returneth home;
With spoils that he hath won,
High prize of valour, now will he exulting come:
Stroph. II.
E'en he of whom we thought
Twelve long months, knowing nought,
As of an exile far upon the sea;
