On many a wandering way,
Sparing nor ships, nor ropes, nor sailing gear,
Doubling the weary months, and vexing still
The Argive host with fear.
Then when as mightier charm for that dread ill,
Hard for our ships to bear,
From the seer's lips did “Artemis” resound,
The Atreidæ smote their staves upon the ground,
And with no power to check, shed many a bitter tear.
Antistrophe IV