Chorus
From the Tyrian swell of the sea I came, a choice offering for Loxias from the island of Phoenicia, to be a slave to Phoebus in his halls, where he dwells under the snow-swept peaks of Parnassus; through the Ionian sea I sailed in the waves, over the unharvested plains, in the gusts of Zephyrus that ride from Sicily, sweetest music in the sky.
Chorus
Chosen from my city as beauty’s gift for Loxias, to the land of Cadmus I came, sent here to the towers of Laius, the home of my kin, the famous sons of Agenor. And I became the handmaid of Phoebus, dedicated like his statues of wrought gold. But the water of Castalia is still waiting for me to drench the maiden glory of my hair for the service of Phoebus.
Chorus
Hail, rock that lights up a double-crested flash of fire above the frenzied heights of Dionysus; and the vine, that every day lets fall the lush cluster of grapes; and the holy cavern of the serpent and the gods’ watchtower on the hills, and the sacred snow-swept mountain! Would I were free of fear and circling in the dance of the deathless god, having left Dirce for the valleys of Phoebus at the center of the world.
Chorus
But now I find the impetuous god of war has come to battle before the walls, and is kindling a murderous blaze—may he not succeed!—for this city. For a friend’s pain is shared, and if this land with its seven towers suffers any mischance, Phoenicia’s realm will share it. Ah me! our blood is one; we are all children of Io, the horned maid; these sorrows I claim as mine.
Chorus
Around the city a thick cloud of shields is kindling a shape of bloody battle, which Ares will soon learn, if he brings upon the sons of Oedipus the curse of the Furies. O Argos, city of Pelasgia! I dread your might, and also what comes from the gods; for the one who approaches his home in armor is setting out to a contest that is not without justice.
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