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death. Therefore hasten they to his support—so strange is Chance, so blind the purposes of men!—and favour the king’s cause; but when “Lemnos” and “Thoas” reached their ears, straight had they rushed through weapons and troops of men, and both with tears snatch their mother to their greedy embrace and in turn press her to their bosoms. But she, like a stony rock, with countenance unmoved stirs not nor dares believe the gods she knows so well. But when she recognized their faces and the marks of Argo on the swords the mariners had left and Jason’s name inwoven on their shoulders, her grief was stayed, and overcome by so great a blessing she swooned, and her eyes were moist with other tears. Signs too were shown in heaven, and the drums and cymbals of the god and the glad huzzas of his wild train resounded through the echoing air.

Then the devout Oeclides,^[1] so soon as wrath appeased made the crowd fall silent, and there was approach to tranquil ears: “Hearken, O ruler of Nemea and ye flower of Argive princes, what Apollo surely reveals for us to do. Long hath this woe been ordained for you at Argive hands, unwavering runs the line of Destiny.^[2] The drought of perished streams, the deadly serpent, and the child Archemorus, whose name, alas, bears the seal of our fate,^[3] all these events flow down and issue from the high purpose of the gods. A truce now to your passions, lay down your hasty arms! To this infant enduring honours must be paid. Truly he hath deserved them; let virtue make fair libation to a virtuous soul, and would that thou mightest continue, O Phoebus, to weave even more delays, would that new chances