On pale Eurotas, from pure Dirce’s flow,
  That turn not neither falter,
Seeking Her land, where no man breaketh bread, Her without pity, round whose virgin head Blood on the pillars rusts from long ago,
  Blood on the ancient altar.
                                     [Antistrophe 1.]
A flash of the foam, a flash of the foam,
  A wave on the oarblade welling,
And out they passed to the heart of the blue: 
A chariot shell that the wild winds drew. 
Is it for passion of gold they come,
  Or pride to make great their dwelling?

For sweet is Hope, yea, to much mortal woe
So sweet that none may turn from it nor go,
  Whom once the far voice calleth,
To wander through fierce peoples and the gleam
Of desolate seas, in every heart a dream: 
And these she maketh empty die, and, lo,
  To that man’s hand she falleth.

[Strophe 2.]

  Through the Clashing Rocks they burst: 
    They passed by the Cape unsleeping
  Of Phineus’ sons accurst: 
  They ran by the star-lit bay
    Upon magic surges sweeping,
  Where folk on the waves astray
  Have seen, through the gleaming grey,
  Ring behind ring, men say,
    The dance of the old Sea’s daughters.

  The guiding oar abaft
    It rippled and it dinned,
  And now the west wind laughed
    And now the south-west wind;
  And the sail was full in flight,
  And they passed by the Island White: 

Birds, birds, everywhere,
White as the foam, light as the air;
And ghostly Achilles raceth there,
Far in the Friendless Waters.
[Antistrophe 1.]
Ah, would that Leda’s child ... 
(So prayeth the priestess maiden)
From Troy, that she beguiled,
Hither were borne, to know
What sin on her soul is laden! 
Hair twisted, throat held low,
Head back for the blood to flow,
To die by the sword. ...  Ah no! 
One hope my soul yet hideth.

  A sail, a sail from Greece,
    Fearless to cross the sea,
  With ransom and with peace
    To my sick captivity. 
  O home, to see thee still,
  And the old walls on the hill!

  Dreams, dreams, gather to me! 
  Bear me on wings over the sea;
  O joy of the night, to slave and free,
    One good thing that abideth!

Leader. 
  But lo, the twain whom Thoas sends,
    Their arms in bondage grasped sore;
    Strange offering this, to lay before
  The Goddess!  Hold your peace, O friends.

  Onward, still onward, to this shrine
    They lead the first-fruits of the Greek. 
    ’Twas true, the tale he came to speak,
  That watcher of the mountain kine.

  O holy one, if it afford
    Thee joy, what these men bring to thee,
    Take thou their sacrifice, which we,
  By law of Hellas, hold abhorred.

[Enter Orestes and Pylades, bound, and guarded by
  taurians. re-enter iphigenia.]