Song Of The Captive Trojan Maiden
Breeze, breeze of the sea,
Who the wave-passers bearest home
Swift and unwearied o'er the billows' foam,
Ah! whither lead'st thou me
Grief-worn? whose house must have
This thing - a captured slave?
Or shall I reach a harbor strand
Dorian of Phthian, where they tell
Apidanos o'erstreams the land,
Father of fairest founts that well?
Or else some island shore,
Urged, wretched, on my way with brine-splashed oar,
To lead a life of weary sorrow there,
Where the first palm bare fruit,
Where the bay raised each sacred shoot
To form a bower,
Leto's protection in her trial of hour?
Or shall I, like Delian maiden,
Sing of Artemis divine,
Or at Pallas' sacred shrine
The steeds to her fair chariot yoke
To bear her, clad in saffron cloak,
And braid the silken garments thin
With saffron flowerets woven in?
Or shall I sing the Titan brood,
Whom Zeus, great Kronos' son,
Poured twice-forged fire upon,
And did to lasting sleep by that fell bolt and rude?
Ah, sorrow for the young,
For those whose life was long,
For all the land,
A heap of smoking ruin,
Spear-pierced to her undoing
By Argive hand!
And I shall be a slave
Within a country not my own,
Leaving the land that Europe has o'erthrown,
'Scaping the chambers of the grave.