Where death-laden Simois falls,Of the face of dead Itys that stunned her,Of grief grown to music and wonder:Most changeful and old and undyingThe nightingale calls.ANOTHER.And on Ida the shepherds are wakingTheir flocks for the upland. I hearThe skirl of a pipe very distant.ANOTHER.And sleep, it falls slow and insistent.’Tis perilous sweet when the breakingOf dawn is so near.DIVERS GUARDS(talking).Why have we still no word nor signOf that scout in the Argive line?ANOTHER.I know not; he is long delayed.ANOTHER.God send he trip not on the bladeOf some Greek in an ambuscade!ANOTHER.It may be. I am half afraid.LEADER.Our time is past! Up, men, and tellThe fifth watch. ’Tis the Lycians’ spellNow, as the portions fairly fell.