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vv. 660–684. Dead men, dead ships, and spars disasterful.

Howbeit for us, our one unwounded hull

Out of that wrath was stolen or begged free

By some good spirit—sure no man was he!—

Who guided clear our helm; and on till now

Hath Saviour Fortune throned her on the prow,

No surge to mar our mooring, and no floor

Of rock to tear us when we made for shore.

Till, fled from that sea-hell, with the clear sun

Above us and all trust in fortune gone,

We drove like sheep about our brain the thoughts

Of that lost army, broken and scourged with knouts

Of evil. And, methinks, if there is breath

In them, they talk of us as gone to death—

How else?—and so say we of them! For thee,

Since Menelaüs thy first care must be,

If by some word of Zeus, who wills not yet

To leave the old house for ever desolate,

Some ray of sunlight on a far-off sea

Lights him, yet green and living we may see

His ship some day in the harbour!—'Twas the word

Of truth ye asked me for, and truth ye have heard!

Who was He who found for thee

That name, truthful utterly—

Was it One beyond our vision

Moving sure in pre-decision