for the first sight of the signal which is to tell of the capture
of Troy: he has kept his post for years, till the constellations which
usher in winter and harvest-time are his familiar companions; he must
endure weather and sleeplessness, and when he would sing to keep his
spirits up he is checked by thoughts of his absent master's household, in
which, he darkly hints, things are "not well." [_He is settling himself
into an easier posture, when suddenly he springs to his feet._] The
beacon-fire at last! [_He shouts the signal agreed upon, and begins
dancing for joy._] Now all will be well; a little while and his hand
shall touch the dear hand of his lord; and then--ah! "the weight of an ox
rests on his tongue," but if the house had a voice it could tell a tale!
[_Exit to bring tidings to the queen._] {39}

PARODE, OR CHORUS-ENTRY

_As if roused by the Watchman's shout, enter the Chorus: Twelve Elders of
Argos: in the usual processional order, combining music, chanting and
gesture-dance, to a rhythm conventionally associated with marching. They
enter on the right (as if from the city), and the Processional Chant
takes them gradually round the Orchestra towards the Thymele, or Altar of
Dionysus, in the centre._

_The Chorus_ in their Processional Chant open the general state of
affairs, especially bringing out the doublesidedness of the situation
[which is the key-note of the whole Drama]: the expected triumph over
Troy, which cannot be far distant now, combined with misgivings as to
misfortunes sure to come as nemesis for the dark deeds connected with the
setting out of the expedition. They open thus:

Lo! the tenth year now is passing {40}
Since, of Priam great avengers,
Menelaos, Agamemnon,
Double-throned and double-sceptred,
Power from sovran Zeus deriving--
Mighty pair of the Atreidae--
Raised a fleet of thousand vessels
Of the Argives from our country,
Potent helpers in their warfare,
Shouting cry of Ares fiercely;
E'en as vultures shriek who hover,
Wheeling, whirling o'er their eyrie, {50}
In wild sorrow for their nestlings,
With their oars of stout wings rowing,
Having lost the toil that bound them
To their callow fledglings' couches.
But on high One--or Apollo,
Zeus, or Pan,--the shrill cry hearing,
Cry of birds that are his clients,
Sendeth forth on men transgressing