Who goes there? Who cries?
    A friend? The watchword! . . . By what right
    Do men come prowling in the night
    Across my quarters? Come! Speak out.

    A picket, Lord.

                               In such a rout?

    Be not afraid, Lord.

                                   I am not.
    Is there an ambush? No? Then what,
    In God's name, brings you from your post
          With no clear tale to speak,
    To spread this turmoil through a host
    That lies in harness—do ye all
    Know nothing?—out against the wall
          And gateways of the Greek?

    To arms! To arms, Lord Hector!—Send
          First where the allied armies lie,
    Bid them draw sword and make an end
          Of sleep.—Let someone fly
    And get the horses' armour on!—
    Who goes with me to Panthoös' son?—
[Pg 5    vv. 29-54]Who's for Sarpêdon and the Lycians?—None
          Hath seen the priest go by?—
    Ho, Captain of the Runners, ho!—
    Ho, Trojans of the hornèd bow!
          String, string! For need is nigh.

    Ha, silence there! . . .
                                 First words of fear,
          Then comfort. All an empty swell!
    It seems the lash of trembling Pan
    Hath caught you. Speak, if speak ye can.
    What tidings? Not a word is clear
          Of the whole tale ye tell.

    Great beacons in the Argive line
        Have burned, my chief, through half the night.
    The shipyard timbers seemed to shine.
        Then, clear against the light,
    Toward Agamemnon's tent the whole
    Army in tumult seemed to roll,
As stirred by some strange voice, shoal after shoal.
        A night of such discord
    Was never seen. And we, in dread
    What such things boded, turned and sped
        Hither; dost blame us, Lord?

No! Welcome, friend, with all thy tale of fear!
It shows they mean to fly: they mean to clear
[Pg 6    vv. 55-78]Decks in the dark and so delude my sight . . .
I like that beacon-burning in the night.
    O Zeus above, who checked my conquering way,
Who baulked the hungry lion of his prey
Or ever I could sweep my country clear
Of these despoilers, dost thou hate my spear?
Had but the sun's bright arrows failed me not,
I ne'er had rested till the ships were hot
With fire, and through the