CHORUS.
He came once, of old,
Up thro' the city throng,
Foam on his lips, a-cold,
Huddled in rags that hung
Covering just the sword
Hid in his mantle's pleat;
His face grimed and scored,
A priest of wandering feet,
Who begged his bread in the street.
Many and evil things
He cast on the brother kings
Like one long hurt, who nurseth anger sore;
Would that a curse, yea, would
The uttermost wrath of God
Had held those feet from walking Ilion's shore!
DIVERS GUARDS (talking).
Odysseus or another, 'tis the guard
Will weep for this. Aye, Hector will be hard.-
What will he say?-He will suspect.-Suspect?
What evil? What should make you fear?-
'Twas we that left a passage clear.-
A passage?-Yea, for these men's way,
Who came by night into the lines unchecked.
