Chorus: Hark! hark! a sound; 'tis the nightingale, that slew her child,
singing where she sits upon her bloodstained nest by Simois her piteous
plaint, sweet singer of the many trills; already along Ida's slopes
they are pasturing the flocks, and o'er the night I catch the shrill
pipe's note; sleep on my closing eyelids softly steals, the sweetest
sleep that comes at dawn to tired eyes.
Semi-Chorus: Why doth not our scout draw near, whom Hector sent to spy the fleet?
He is so long away, I have my fears.
Is it possible he hath plunged into a hidden ambush and been slain?
Soon must we know.
My counsel is we go and rouse the Lycians to the fifth watch, as the
lot ordained. (Exit Semi-Chorus., Enter Diomedes and Odysseus
cautiously with drawn swords.)
Odysseus: Didst not hear, O Diomedes, the clash of arms? or is it
an idle noise that rings in my ears?
Diomedes: Nay, 'tis the rattle of steel harness on the chariot-rails;
me, too, did fear assail, till I perceived 'twas but the clang of
horses' chains.
Studies
