his course. He must prepare him for the fray, But soon his wearied hand sinks low; Inured the gentle lyre to play, It ne'er has strung the deadly bow. On gods and men for aid he cries,—    No savior to his prayer replies; However far his voice he sends, Naught living to his cry attends.    "And must I in a foreign land, Unwept, deserted, perish here, Falling beneath a murderous hand, Where no avenger can appear?"     Deep-wounded, down he sinks at last, When, lo! the cranes' wings rustle past. He hears,—though he no more can see,—    Their voices screaming fearfully.    "By you, ye cranes, that soar on high, If not another voice is heard, Be borne to heaven my murder-cry!"     He speaks, and dies, too, with the word. The naked corpse, ere long, is found, And, though defaced by many a wound, His host in Corinth soon could tell The features that he loved so well.    "And is it thus I find thee now, Who hoped the pine's victorious crown To place upon the singer's brow, Illumined by his bright renown?"     The news is heard with grief by all Met at Poseidon's festival; All Greece is conscious of the smart, He leaves a void in every heart; And to the Prytanis 33 swift hie The people, and they urge him on The dead man's manes to pacify And with the murderer's blood atone. But where's the trace that from the throng The people's streaming crowds among, Allured there by the sports so bright, Can bring the villain back to light? By craven robbers was he slain? Or by some envious hidden foe? That Helios only can explain, Whose rays illume all things below. Perchance, with shameless step and proud, He threads e'en now the Grecian crowd—    Whilst vengeance follows in pursuit, Gloats over his transgression's fruit. The very gods perchance he braves Upon the threshold of their fane,—    Joins boldly in the human waves That haste yon theatre to gain. For there the Grecian tribes appear, Fast pouring in from far and near; On close-packed benches sit they there,—    The stage the weight can scarcely bear. Like ocean-billows' hollow roar, The teaming crowds of living man Toward the cerulean heavens upsoar, In bow of ever-widening span. Who knows the nation, who the name, Of all who there together came? From Theseus' town, from Aulis' strand From Phocis, from the Spartan land, From Asia's distant coast, they wend, From every island of the sea, And from the stage they hear ascend The chorus's dread melody. Who, sad and solemn, as of old, With footsteps measured and controlled, Advancing from the far background, Circle the theatre's wide round. Thus, mortal 

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