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But ere the dirge begin, let us prolong

With well accordant breath

Erinys' loud, harsh, unmelodious song,

The dismal paean of the Lord of Death.

Unhappy sisters, most unblest

Of all that e'er held brother dear,

Or bound beneath a tender breast

The cincture noble women wear;

From feigned grief no forced lament I borrow;

The heart's voice speaks when I shrill forth my sorrow.

O ye perverse, to counsel blind

Ye weariless in woe!

Must courage turn its hand 'gainst kind,

Power its own house lay low?

And sought ye death or sought ye doom

And ruin for your house and home?

Her princely walls ye tumbled flat;

In rivalry for her

A bitter monarchy ye gat,—

The sword your peacemaker.

Sceptred Erinys keeps your house,

Wreaking the wrath of Œdipus.

Oh, ill encounter! Fellowship

Of hands that hatred joins!

The drops that from these gnashes drip

Flow from the self-same loins!

Woe for the curse with Heaven allied,

Red with the blood of fratricide!