Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/99

Rh The tale unfolding of the storm that smote

The Achaian host, not without wrath of Heaven?

For fire and ocean, bitter foes of yore,

Sware true alliance and redeemed their pledge,

Whelming Achaia's luckless armament.

Then in the night foul-surging mischiefs rose:

Beneath the Thracian blasts ship against ship

Dashed wildly; they, sore-butted by the storm,

With furious wind and stress of pelting rain,

Vanished from sight, 'neath whirl of shepherd dire.

And when uprose the sun's fair light, behold,

The Ægean sea with flowerage overstrewn,—

Corpses of Grecian men and wrecks of ships.

Us, and our vessel with undamaged hull,

Some god, I ween, (not mortal was the power,)

Ruling the helm, hath saved, by stealth or prayer.

But Saviour Fortune lighting on our ship,

At moorage she nor felt the billows' strain,

Nor drave against the iron-girded coast.

Then safe at last, from watery Hades snatch'd,

In genial daylight, still mistrusting chance,

With anxious thought o'er this new grief we brooded,—

Our host sore wearied, and in evil plight.

And doubtless now, if any still survive,

They speak of us as dead. Why should they not?

As we imagine a like fate for them.

But may the best befal! For Menelas,

Foremost and chief, expect him to arrive;

If any sunbeam knows of him as safe,

Rejoicing in the light, (through the device