Soon will the clear-voiced flute return to you
With no unfitting strain,
But like a lyre with hymn
And song the Gods approve;
For, lo! the hero whom Zeus owns as son,
Of fair Alcmena born, hastes home to us,
With trophies of high worth.
Him we, (for twelve long months,
Still waiting, knowing nought of all that passed,)
Counted as wanderer far upon the sea;
And she, his dear-loved wife,
Weeping with many tears,
Full sadly wore her saddened heart away,
But Ares, roused to rage,
Hath freed us from our dark and troublous days.
Ah may he come, yea, come!
Let not his ship of many oars lie to,
Before this city welcomes his approach;
Leaving the island hearth,
Where he his victim slays,
Thence may he come, yea, come with strong desire,
Tempered by suasive spell,
Of that rich unguent, as the Monster spake.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.