Page:Choëphoroe (Murray 1923).djvu/37

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A strange death, full of fear,

That the folk beyond far seas

Should enquire thereof, and hear;

Not of our miseries!

My daughter, rare as gold is rare,

And blither than the skies behind

The raging of the northern wind

Are these thy prayers: for what is prayer?

Yet, be thou sure, this twofold scourge

Is heard: it pierceth to the verge

Of darkness, and your helpers now

Are wakening. These encharioted

Above us, lo, their hand is red!

Abhorrèd are they by the dead;

But none so hates as he and thou!

Ah me, that word, that word

Stabbeth my heart, as a sword!

God, God, who sendest from below

Blind vengeance in the wake

Of sin, what deed have I to do,

With hand most weak and full of woe?

'Tis for my father's sake!

May it be mine, may it be mine,

To dance about the blazing pine

Crying, crying,

"A man is slain, a woman dying!"