Song sung by captive women of Troy on the sea beach at Aulis, while the Achaeans were there storm-bound through the wrath of dishonoured Achilles, and waiting for a fair wind to bring them home.

Strofh

O fair wind blowing from the sea!
Who through the dark and mist dost guide
The ships that on the billows ride,
Unto what land, ah, misery!
Shall I be borne, across what stormy wave,
Or to whose house a purchased slave?

O sea-wind blowing fair and fast
Is it unto the Dorian strand,
Or to those far and fabled shores,
Where great Apidanus outpours
His streams upon the fertile land,
Or shall I tread the Phthian sand,
Borne by the swift breath of the blast.

Antistrofh

O blowing wind! you bring my sorrow near,
For surely borne with splashing of the oar,
And hidden in some galley-prison drear
I shall be led unto that distant shore
Where the tall palm-tree first took root, and made,
With clustering laurel leaves, a pleasant shade
For Leto when with travail great she bore
A god and goddess in Love's bitter fight,
Her body's anguish, and her soul's delight.

It may be in Delos,
Encircled of seas,
I shall sing with some maids
From the Kyklades,
Of Artemis goddess
And queen and maiden,
Sing of the gold
In her hair heavy laden.
Sing of her hunting,
Her arrows and bow,
And in singing find solace
From weeping and woe.

Strofh b

Or it may be my bitter doom
To stand a handmaid at the loom,
In distant Athens of supreme renown;
And weave some wondrous tapestry,
Or work in bright embroidery
Upon the crocus-flower'd robe and saffron-colour'd gown,
The flying horses wrought in gold,
The silver chariot onward roll'd
That bears Athena through the Town;
Or the warring giants that strove to climb
From earth to heaven to reign as kings,
And Zeus the conquering son of Time
Borne on the hurricane's eagle wings;
And the lightning flame and the bolts that fell
From the risen cloud at the god's behest,
And hurl'd the rebels to darkness of hell,
To a sleep without slumber or waking or rest.

Antistrofh b

Alas! our children's sorrow, and their pain
In slavery.
Alas! our warrior sires nobly slain
For liberty.
Alas! our country's glory, and the name
Of Troy's fair town;
By the lances and the fighting and the flame
Tall Troy is down.

I shall pass with my soul overladen,
To a land far away and unseen,
For Asia is slave and handmaiden,
Europe is Mistress and Queen.
Without love, or love's holiest treasure,
I shall pass unto Hades abhorr'd,
To the grave as my chamber of pleasure,
To death as my Lover and Lord.