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10 For a Virgin's blood: 'tis a rite of old, men tell.

And they bum with longing.—O God may the end be well!"

To the yoke of Must-Be he bowed him slowly,

And a strange wind within his bosom tossed,

A wind of dark thought, unclean, unholy;

And he rose up, daring to the uttermost.

For men are boldened by a Blindness, straying

Toward base desire, which brings grief hereafter,

Yea, and itself is grief;

So this man hardened to his own child's slaying,

As help to avenge him for a woman's laughter

And bring his ships relief!

Her "Father, Father," her sad cry that lingered,

Her virgin heart's breath they held all as naught,

Those bronze-clad witnesses and battle-hungered;

And there they prayed, and when the prayer was wrought

He charged the young men to uplift and bind her,

As ye lift a wild kid, high above the altar,

Fierce-huddling forward, fallen, clinging sore

To the robe that wrapt her; yea, he bids them hinder

The sweet mouth's utterance, the cries that falter,

—His curse for evermore!—

With violence and a curb's voiceless wrath,

Her stole of saffron then to the ground she threw,

And her eye with an arrow of pity found its path

To each man's heart that slew: