And now this way, now that he dragged his feet,
Trailing his weary way,
(Like children, who, their nurse being absent, stray,)
Where any ease might be,
Whene'er his pain sore-vexing left him free.
Stroph. II.
No food had he from out the sacred ground,
Nor aught of all we share,
Keen workers as we are,
Only what he with wingèd arrows found,
From his swift-darting bow.
Ο soul, worn down with woe!
That for ten years ne'er knew the wine-cup's taste,
But turning still his gaze
Where the pool stagnant stays,
Thither he aye his dreary pathway traced.
Antistroph. II.
But now since he hath met with true-born son
Of men of valour, he
Shall rise up blest and free:
One who, in ship that o'er the sea had flown,
After long months hath come,
And leads him to his home,
Where nymphs of Melia dwell, and, bearing shield,
The hero oft hath trod,
Equal with Gods, a God,
Bright with Heaven's fire o'er Œta's lofty field.
827–864.
Chorus.
Ο sleep, that know'st not pain!
Ο sleep, that know'st not care!
