_Chor._ Ah, me! thou land of jutting promontory
Which justly all revere,
What lies before us? Where in Apian land
Shall we a refuge find,
If still there be dark hiding anywhere?
Ah! that I were as smoke
That riseth full and black
Nigh to the clouds of Zeus, 760
Or soaring up on high invisible,
Like dust that vanishes,
Pass out of being with no help from wings!