_Strophe I: to the Right._
Why is it that forebodings haunt the gate of our hearts, and we lack
steadfast trust to fling them away as visions? It is not long since that
fatal starting for Troy, {959}
_Antistrophe I: back to Altar_
and now we have seen with our own eyes the safe return: and yet our mind,
self-taught, keeps chanting within itself a dirge of fate. These inner
pulses cannot be in vain: heaven send they prove false oracles! {971}
_Strophe II: to the Left._
When Wealth o'erflows, Restlessness, as a near neighbor with only a wall
between, presses it on with perpetual desire for more, till Prosperity
strikes suddenly on an unseen rock--yet even then, by sacrificing a
portion of the cargo, the rest may be saved; so by plenteous harvests
sent from Zeus, hunger and pestilence may be allayed: {986}
_Antistrophe II: back to Altar._
but when blood has once been poured upon the ground, what charm can bring
it back? Zeus struck dead the Healer who found how to restore life. I
would give my misgiving relief in pouring out words of warning: but I
know that fate is certain and can never be escaped; so I am plunged in
gloom, with little hope ever to unravel my soul that burns with its hot
thoughts. {1001}