ΘPHNΩIΔIA

Song sung by the captive women of Troy on the beach at Aulis, while the Achaeans were there storm-bound through the wrath of dishonoured Achilles, and waiting for a fair wind to bring them home.

ΣTPOΦH

O fair wind blowing from the sea!

Who through the dark and mist dost guide

The ships that on the billows ride,

Unto what land, ah, misery!

Shall I be borne, across what stormy wave,

Or to whose house a purchased slave?

O sea-wind blowing fair and fast

Is it unto the Dorian strand,

Or to those far and fabled shore,

Where great Apidanus outpours

His streams upon the fertile land,

Or shall I tread the Phthian sand,

Borne by the swift breath of the blast?

ANTIΣTPOΦH

O blowing wind! You bring my sorrow near,

For surely borne with splashing of the oar,

And hidden in some galley-prison drear

I shall be led unto that distant shore

Where the tall palm-tree first took root, and made,

With clustering laurel leaves, a pleasant shade

For Leto when with travail great she bore

A god and goddess in Love’s bitter fight

Her body’s anguish, and her soul’s delight.

It may be in Delos,

Encircled of seas,

I shall sing with some maids

From the Cyclades,

Or Artemis goddess

And queen and maiden,

Sing of the gold

In her hair heavy-laden.

Sing of her hunting,

Her arrows and bow,

And in singing find solace

From weeping and woe.

ΣTPOΦH B

Or it may be my bitter doom

To stand a handmaid at the loom,

In distant Athens of supreme renown;

And weave some wondrous tapestry,

Or work in bright embroidery,

Upon the crocus flowered robe and saffron-coloured gown,

The flying horses wrought in gold,

The silver chariot onward rolled

That bears Athena through the Town;

Or the warring giants that strove to climb

From earth to heaven to reign as kings,

And Zeus the conquering son of Time

Borne on the hurricane’s eagle wings;

And the lightning flame and the bolts that fell

From the risen cloud at the god’s behest,

And hurled the rebels to darkness of hell,

To a sleep without slumber or waking or rest.

ANTIΣTPOΦH B

Alas! Our children’s sorrow, and their pain In slavery.

Alas! Our warrior sires nobly slain For liberty.

Alas! Our country’s glory, and the name Of Troy’s fair town;

By the lances and the fighting and the flame Tall Troy is down.

I shall pass with my soul over-laden,

To a land far away and unseen,

For Asia is slave and handmaiden,

Europa is Mistress and Queen.

Without love, or love’s holiest treasure,

I shall pass into Hades abhorred,

To the grave as my chamber of pleasure,

To death as my Lover and Lord.