LICH.  I saw, and was amazed with heart-struck joy.

DE.  What more is there to tell?—­Too rash, I fear,
Were thy report of longing on my part,
Till we can learn if we be longed for there. [Exeunt severally

CHORUS. 
        O ye that haunt the strand I 1
        Where ships in quiet land
Near Oeta’s height and the warm rock-drawn well,
And ye round Melis’ inland gulf who dwell,
Worshipping her who wields the golden wand,—­
(There Hellas’ wisest meet in council strong): 
        Soon shall the flute arise
        With sound of glad surprise,
Thrilling your sense with no unwelcome song,
But tones that to the harp of Heavenly Muse belong.

        Zeus’ and Alcmena’s son,—­ I 2
        All deeds of glory done,—­
Speeds now triumphant to his home, whom we
Twelve weary months of blind expectancy
Lost in vast distance, from our country gone. 
While, sadly languishing, his loving wife,
        Still flowing down with tears,
        Pined with unnumbered fears. 
But Ares, lately stung to furious strife,
Frees him for ever[3] from the toilsome life.

        O let him come to-day!  II
        Ne’er may his vessel stay,
But glide with feathery sweep of many an oar,
Till from his altar by yon island shore
Even to our town he wind his prosperous way,
        In mien returning mild,
        And inly reconciled,
With that anointing in his heart ingrained,
Which the dark Centaur’s wizard lips ordained.

Enter DEANIRA.

DE.  O how I fear, my friends, lest all too far
I have ventured in my action of to-day!

CH.  What ails thee, Deanira, Oeneus’ child?

DE.  I know not, but am haunted by a dread,
Lest quickly I be found to have performed
A mighty mischief, through bright hopes betrayed.

CH.  Thou dost not mean thy gift to Heracles?

DE.  Indeed I do.  Now I perceive how fond
Is eagerness, where actions are obscure.

CH.  Tell, if it may be told, thy cause of fear.

DE.  A thing is come to pass, which should I tell,
Will strike you with strange wonder when you learn. 
For, O my friends, the stuff wherewith I dressed
That robe, a flock of soft and milkwhite wool,
Is shrivelled out of sight, not gnawn by tooth
Of any creature here, but, self-consumed,
Frittered and wasting on the courtyard-stones. 
  To let you know the circumstance at full,
I will speak on.  Of all the Centaur-Thing,
When labouring in his side with the fell point
O’ the shaft, enjoined me, I had nothing lost,
But his vaticination in my heart
Remained indelible, as though engraved
With pen of iron upon brass.  ’Twas thus:—­
I was to keep this unguent closely hid