With bated breath to suit misfortune’s inrush here— (What time it laboured, that Achaian host,By stay from sailing, — every pulse at lengthEmptied of vital strength, —Hard over Kalchis shore-bound, current-crostIn Aulis station, — while the winds which post From Strumon, ill-delayers, famine-fraught,Tempters of man to sail where harbourage is naught,Spendthrifts of ships and cables, turning timeTo twice the length, — these carded, by delay,To less and less awayThe Argeians’ flowery prime:And when a remedy more grave and grandThan aught before, — yea, for the storm and dearth, —The prophet to the foremost in commandShrieked forth, as cause of thisAdducing Artemis,So that the Atreidai striking staves on earthCould not withhold the tear) — Then did the king, the elder, speak this clear.