CHORUS. [vv. 224-255]

Thymbraean, Delian, Birth divine, That walkest Lycia's inmost shrine, Come, strong to guard, to guide, to follow, Come, bow in hand and girt with night, To help thy Dardans as of old, When stone by stone thy music rolled-- O conquering Strength, O Sire Apollo!-- Young Ilion into towers of light.

Grant that he reach the shipyard, creep Keen-eyed through all that host asleep, Then back to home and hearth, yet living, Where now his father prays alone: Yea, grant that, when the Greeks are slain, Our wolf shall mount with scourge and rein Those coursers of the sea-G.o.d's giving, Whom Peleus drove in days foregone.

Alone in those Greek ships to stake His life, for home and country's sake: 'Tis wondrous! Few be hearts so true When seas across the bulwark break, And sunlight sickens o'er the crew.

Ah, Phrygia still hath hearts of rock!

The Phrygian spear flies fast and far!

Where shall ye find the fool to mock Our works in war?

Whom will he stab a-sleeping, whom, The quick grey wolf, the crawling doom?

Grant that he slay the Spartan! Nay, Or Agamemnon's head and plume [vv. 256-272]

To Helen bear at dawn of day!

A lightsome dawn to hear her wail Her brother sworn, her King who came To Ilion with his thousand sail, And swords, and flame!

[_As the song ends_ DOLON _reappears, in the disguise of a wolf. The Guards gather round him, bidding him G.o.dspeed as he crawls off in the dark towards the Greek camp. Meantime from the direction of Mount Ida has entered a_ SHEPHERD _who goes to_ HECTOR's _door and calls. The Guards seeing him return to their places._

SHEPHERD.

Ho, Master!

[_Enter_ HECTOR _from tent_.

I would it ofttimes were my luck to share As goodly news with thee as now I bear.

HECTOR.

What dulness hangs about these shepherds! Block, Com'st thou to us with tidings of thy flock Here in the field in arms? Who wants thee here?

Thou know'st my house; thou know'st my father's.

There Tell all about thy lucky lambs.--Now go.

SHEPHERD.

Dull wits, we shepherds! Aye, 'twas alway so.

Yet still, there is some good news to be told.

HECTOR. [vv. 273-288]

A truce there to thy gossip of the fold!

Our dealings are of war, of sword and spear.

[_He turns to go._

SHEPHERD.

Aye; so were mine. That is what brought me here.

[HECTOR's _manner changes_.

A chief comes yonder, leading a great band Of spears, with help to thee and all the land.

HECTOR.

From whence? How do his name and lineage run?

SHEPHERD.

He comes from Thrace, the River Strymon's son.

HECTOR.

Rhesus! Not Rhesus, here on Trojan soil?

SHEPHERD.

Thou hast guessed. That eases me of half my toil.

HECTOR.

What makes he there towards Ida? All astray Thus from the plain and the broad waggon-way!

SHEPHERD.

I know not rightly, though one well may guess.

'Tis hard to land at night, with such a press Of spears, on a strange coast, where rumours tell Of foes through all the plain-land. We that dwell On Ida, in the rock, Troy's ancient root And hearth-stone, were well frighted, through the mute [vv. 289-316]

And wolfish thickets thus to hear him break.

A great and rushing noise those Thracians make, Marching. We, all astonied, ran to drive Our sheep to the upmost heights. 'Twas some Argive, We thought, who came to sweep the mountain clear And waste thy folds; till suddenly our ear Caught at their speech, and knew 'twas nothing Greek.

Then all our terror fled. I ran to seek Some scout or pioneer who led the van And called in Thracian: "Ho, what child of man Doth lead you? From what nation do ye bring This host with aid to Ilion and her king?"

He told me what I sought, and there I stood Watching; and saw one gleaming like a G.o.d, Tall in the darkness on a Thracian car.

A plate of red gold mated, like a bar, His coursers' necks, white, white as fallen snow.

A carven targe, with golden shapes aglow, Hung o'er his back. Before each courser's head A Gorgon, to the frontlet riveted, With bells set round--like stories that they tell Of Pallas' shield--made music terrible.

The numbers of that host no pen could write Nor reckon; 'tis a mult.i.tudinous sight, Long lines of hors.e.m.e.n, lines of targeteers, Archers abundant; and behind them veers A wavering horde, light-armed, in Thracian weed.

A friend is come to Ilion in her need 'Gainst whom no Argive, let him fly or stand, Shall aught avail nor 'scape his conquering hand.

LEADER. [vv. 317-331]

Lo, when the G.o.ds breathe gently o'er a town, All runs to good, as water-streams run down.

HECTOR (_bitterly_).

Aye, when my spear hath fortune, when G.o.d sends His favour, I shall find abundant friends.

I need them not; who never came of yore To help us, when we rolled to death before The war-swell, and the wind had ripped our sail.

Then Rhesus taught us Trojans what avail His words are.--He comes early to the feast; Where was he when the hunters met the beast?

Where, when we sank beneath the Argive spear?

LEADER.

Well may'st thou mock and blame thy friend. Yet here He comes with help for Troy. Accept him thou.

HECTOR.

We are enough, who have held the wall till now.