His victims slaughtered, mangled, blood-besprent,
The hero's sacrifice.
Chorus.
Strophe.
Ah me! what news of fear
Of him, the man of spirit bright and keen,
Thou bringest to our ear,
Tidings we may not bear,
While yet no way of 'scaping them is seen,
By the great Danai spread,
Which mighty Rumour swells to form more dread.
Ah me! I fear, I fear,
What creepeth near and near;
In sight of all men draws he nigh to death;
For he with hand to frenzy turned aside,
And dark sword's edge hath slain
The herds that roamed the plain
And keepers who were there the steeds to guide.
Tecmessa.
Ah me! 'Twas thence he rushed,
Dragging the flock of sheep as bound with chain;
And some he stabbed until the blood outgushed,
And some with one sharp stroke he clove in twain;
And, seizing two swift rams with white-woolled feet,
Of one he took the head and tore the tongue,
And both away he flung;
The other to a column bound upright,
Taking his chariot's rein,
And with his double scourge that rings again,
Still more and more did smite,
Uttering foul words of shame,
Which never from a man, but from a demon came.
