Chorus. Antistrophe VI.
I boast not to be skilled in auguries,
Yet mischief here I cannot but surmise. 1100
Through spells, say, if ye know,
To mortals here below,
What grateful cheer is sent?
Their wordy arts from human woe
Breed dark presentiment.
Cassandra. Strophe VII.
Woe! woe! my wretched ill-starred lot!
Wailing another's fate mine own I mourn;
Why hast thou led me hither, all forlorn,
Unless with thee to perish? Wherefore not?
Chorus. Strophe VIII.
Thou'rt frenzied, by some god possest,
And tuneless quirest forth thy doom, 1110
Like nightingale, with dusky plume
Sateless of song. From heart opprest,
Ceaseless her Itys, Itys, flows,[1]
Her life bewailing, rich alone in woes.
Cassandra. Antistrophe VII.
Woe! woe! Clear-voicèd bird, arrayed
In plumèd shape, by powers divine;
- ↑ In the Odyssey (xix. 518) Penelope compares herself to Pandareos' child, the sylvan nightingale which, in the opening spring, perched amid the dense foliage of the trees, warbles beautifully, with frequent change of key, lamenting her boy, her beloved Itylos, son of King Zethus, whom, through insensate folly, she had slain. This is the oldest form of the legend.
