Page:Choëphoroe (Murray 1923).djvu/34

Rh Till, without worship, without love, alone

He crawls to his death, a carcase to the core

Through-rotted, and embalmed to suffer more.

So spake he God, and is one to believe

Such oracles as these? Nay, though I give

No credence, the deed now must needs be done.

So many things of power work here as one:

The God's command; grief for my father slain;

And mine own beggary urgeth me amain,

That never shall these Argives, famed afar,

High conquerors of Troy in joyous war

Cower to two women. For he bears, I know,

A woman's heart. If not, this day will show.

Ye great Apportionments of God,

The road of Righteousness make straight:

"For tongue of hate be tongue of hate

Made perfect": thus, as falls her rod,

God's justice crieth: "For the blow

Of death the blow of death atone."

"On him that doeth shall be done":

Speaks a grey word of long ago.

O Father, Father of Doom,

What word, what deed from me,

Can waft afar to the silent room

Where thy sleep holdeth thee