O for the ships of Troy, the beat [Strophe 1. 
  Of oars that shimmered
Innumerable, and dancing feet
  Of Nereids glimmered;
And dolphins, drunken with the lyre,
Across the dark blue prows, like fire,
  Did bound and quiver,
To cleave the way for Thetis’ son,
Fleet-in-the-wind Achilles, on
To war, to war, till Troy be won
  Beside the reedy river.

Up from Euboea’s caverns came [Antistrophe 1. 
  The Nereids, bearing
Gold armour from the Lords of Flame,
  Wrought for his wearing: 
Long sought those daughters of the deep,
Up Pelion’s glen, up Ossa’s steep
  Forest enchanted,
Where Peleus reared alone, afar,
His lost sea-maiden’s child, the star
Of Hellas, and swift help of war
  When weary armies panted.

There came a man from Troy, and told [Strophe 2. 
  Here in the haven,
How, orb on orb, to strike with cold
The Trojan, o’er that targe of gold,
  Dread shapes were graven. 
All round the level rim thereof
Perseus, on winged feet, above
  The long seas hied him;
The Gorgon’s wild and bleeding hair
He lifted; and a herald fair,
He of the wilds, whom Maia bare,
  God’s Hermes, flew beside him.

         &nb
sp;                                   [Antistrophe 2. 
But midmost, where the boss rose higher,
  A sun stood blazing,
And winged steeds, and stars in choir,
Hyad and Pleiad, fire on fire,
  For Hector’s dazing: 
Across the golden helm, each way,
Two taloned Sphinxes held their prey,
  Song-drawn to slaughter: 
And round the breastplate ramping came
A mingled breed of lion and flame,
Hot-eyed to tear that steed of fame
  That found Pirene’s water.

The red red sword with steeds four-yoked [Epode. 
  Black-maned, was graven,
That laboured, and the hot dust smoked
  Cloudwise to heaven. 
Thou Tyndarid woman!  Fair and tall
Those warriors were, and o’er them all
  One king great-hearted,
Whom thou and thy false love did slay: 
Therefore the tribes of Heaven one day
For these thy dead shall send on thee
An iron death:  yea, men shall see
The white throat drawn, and blood’s red spray,
  And lips in terror parted.

[As they cease, there enters from the left a very old man, bearing a lamb, a wineskin, and a wallet.

OLD MAN.

Where is my little Princess?  Ah, not now;
But still my queen, who tended long ago
The lad that was her father....  How steep-set
These last steps to her porch!  But faint not yet: 
Onward, ye failing knees and back with pain
Bowed, till we look on that dear face again.
                            [Enter ELECTRA. 
Ah, daughter, is it thou?—­Lo, here I am,
With gifts from all my store; this suckling lamb
Fresh from the ewe, green crowns for joyfulness,
And creamy things new-curdled from the press. 
And this long-stored juice of vintages
Forgotten, cased in fragrance:  scant it is,
But passing sweet to mingle nectar-wise
With feebler wine.—­Go, bear them in; mine eyes... 
Where is my cloak?—­They are all blurred with tears.