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Lord of our mortal state, by him are willed

All things, by him fulfilled!

Yet ah my king, my king no more!

What words to say, what tears to pour

Can tell my love for thee?

The spider-web of treachery

She wove and wound, thy life around,

And lo! I see thee lie,

And thro' a coward, impious wound

Pant forth thy life and die!

A death of shame—ah woe on woe!

A treach'rous hand, a cleaving blow!

My guilt thou harpest, o'er and o'er!

I bid thee reckon me no more

As Agamemnon's spouse.

The old Avenger, stern of mood

For Atreus and his feast of blood,

Hath struck the lord of Atreus' house,

And in the semblance of his wife

The king hath slain.—

Yea, for the murdered children's life,

A chieftain's in requital ta'en.

Thou guiltless of this murder, thou!

Who dares such thought avow?

Yet it may be, wroth for the parent's deed,

The fiend hath holpen thee to slay the son.

Dark Ares, god of death, is pressing on

Thro' streams of blood by kindred shed,

Exacting the accompt for children dead,

For clotted blood, for flesh on which their sire did feed.