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Rh And as to ground her saffron-vest she shed,

She smote the sacrificers all and each

With arrow sweet and piteous,

From the eye only sped,—

Significant of will to use a word,

Just as in pictures: since, full many a time,

In her sire's guest-hall, by the well-heaped board

Had she made music,—lovingly with chime

Of her chaste voice, that unpolluted thing,

Honoured the third libation,—paian that should bring

Good fortune to the sire she loved so well.

What followed—those things I nor saw nor tell.

But Kalchas' arts,—whate'er they indicate,—

Miss of fulfilment never: it is fate.