In part of good cheer; nought plainly is said.
Hath Zeus' son Pan with the Scourge of Quaking
Struck thee, that thus thy watch forsaking
Thou startlest the host? What meaneth thy clamour?
What tidings are thine? In thy panic-stammer
Of thronging words is a riddle unread. 40
Chorus.
(Ant.)
Argos' array is with balefires aglow,
Hector, enkindled the livelong night;
And the lines of their galleys with torches are bright.
And with tumult to king Agamemnon's tent
Streaming their warrior-thousands go:
"Thy behest!" they cry: they are vehement.
Never in such wise heretofore
Scared was the sea-borne host of the foe.
So—for I doubted what time hath in store—
Bearing my tidings to thee I came, 50
That with thee I be henceforth clear of blame.
Hector.
Timely thou com'st, though thou dost herald fear.
Yon men are minded to flee forth the land
With darkling oar, escaping so my ken:
Their beacons of the night flash this to me. 55
Ah Fortune, that thou shouldst in triumph's hour
Rob of his prey the lion, ere my spear
With one swoop make an end of Argos' host!
For, had the sun's bright torches not been quenched,[1]
- ↑ Reading dubious: ξυνέσχον gives no indisputable sense.
