Hark! couched on her ill-omened nest,
Fell murderess of her son, in varied strains
Near Simois’ banks the nightingale complains:
What sounds melodious heave her throbbing breast!
The flocks on Ida wont to feed
Still browse o’er that airy height,
Soothing the cold ear of night,
Hark to the murmurs of the pastoral reed.
Sleep on our closing eyelids gently steals;
Sweet are its dews when morn her earliest dawn reveals.
SEMICHOR. But wherefore doth not he draw near whom Hector
Sent to explore the fleet?
SEMICHOR. He hath so long
Been absent that I tremble.
SEMICHOR. If he fell
Into some ambush, and is slain, we soon
Shall have sufficient cause for fear.
SEMICHOR. But haste,
Rouse Lycia’s warriors as by lot ordained.
[_Exit_ CHORUS.