Chorus
Dark straits of the sea, dark, where the gadfly flying from Argos crossed over the inhospitable wave . . . taking the Asian land in exchange for Europe. Whoever are the ones who left the lovely waters of Eurotas, green with reeds, or the holy streams of Dirce, to come here, to come to the unsociable land, where, for the divine maiden, the blood of mortals stains the altars and columned temples?
Chorus
Did they sail the pine-wood oars with double beat of surge, over the waves of the sea, a chariot of a ship in breezes that move the linen sails, to increase the contest of wealth for their halls? For hope is sweet, and insatiable in mortals, to their hurt, for those who bear away the weight of wealth, wandering over the wave and crossing to barbarian cities, with one expectation. But thought of wealth comes at the wrong time for some, while for others it comes moderately.
Chorus
The rocks that rush together, the sleepless shores of Phineus—how did they cross them, running along the salty coast on Amphitrite’s surge, where the fifty daughters of Nereus . . . the circular choruses sing, with wind in the sails, the guiding rudder creaking under the stern, with southern breezes or by the blasts of the west wind, to the land of many birds, the white strand, Achilles’ lovely race-course, over the Black Sea?
Chorus
Would that, by my mistress’ prayers, Helen, Leda’s dear child, might happen to leave Troy and come here, where she might die, crowned over her hair by the bloody water, her throat cut by the hands of my mistress, and so pay her requital. But what a sweet message I should receive, if a sailor came from Hellas, to put an end to my wretched slavery! For may I even in dreams be at home and in my ancestral city, the enjoyment of pleasant sleep, a grace we have in common with prosperity.
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