Zeus, Zeus Perfecter, these my prayers perfect thou!Thy care be — yea — of things thou mayst make perfect!

CHOROS.Wherefore to me, this fear —Groundedly stationed hereFronting my heart, the portent-watcher — flits she?Wherefore should prophet-playThe uncalled and unpaid lay,Nor — having spat forth fear, like bad dreams — sits sheOn the mind’s throne beloved — well-suasive Boldness?For time, since, by a throw of all the hands,The boat’s stern-cables touched the sands,Has past from youth to oldness, —When under Ilion rushed the ship-borne bands. And from my eyes I learn —Being myself my witness — their return.Yet, all the same, without a lyre, my soul,Itself its teacher too, chants from withinErinus’ dirge, not having now the wholeOf Hope’s dear boldness: nor my inwards sin —The heart that’s rolled in whirls against the mind