The sure advisal of our voiceless guide
Follow; as hound a wounded stag pursues,
We track the blood, and snuff the coming death.
Soothly we pant, with life-outwearying toils
Sore overburdened! O’er the wide sea far
I came, and with my wingless flight outstripped
The couriers of the deep. Here he must lie,
In some pent corner skulking. In my nostrils
The scent of mortal blood doth laugh me welcome.
Chorus.[n25]
Voice 1.