Nor ran aground against a shore all rocky.And then, the water-Haides having fled fromIn the white day, not trusting to our fortune,We chewed the cud in thoughts — this novel sorrowO’ the army labouring and badly pounded.And now — if anyone of them is breathing —They talk of us as having perished: why not?And we — that they the same fate have, imagine.May it be for the best! Meneleos, then,Foremost and specially to come, expect thou!If (that is) any ray o’ the sun reports himLiving and seeing too—by Zeus’ contrivings,Not yet disposed to quite destroy the lineage —Some hope is he shall come again to household.Having heard such things, know, thou truth art hearing!

CHOROS.Who may he have been that named thus wholly with exactitude —(Was he someone whom we see not, by forecastings of the futureGuiding tongue in happy mood?)— Her with battle for a bridegroom, on all sides contention-wooed,Helena? Since — mark the suture! —Ship’s-Hell, Man’s-Hell, City’s-Hell,From the delicately-pompous curtains that pavilion well,Forth, by favour of the galeOf earth-born Zephuros did she sail.Many shield-bearers, leaders of the pack,Sailed too upon their track,Theirs who had directed oar,Then visible no more,To Simois’ leaf-luxuriant shore —For sake of strife all gore!