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88 I cry that one may come to smite thy foes,

And that the slayers may in turn be slain.

Cursed is their prayer, and thus I bar its path,

Praying mine own, a counter-curse on them.

And thou, send up to us the righteous boon

For which we pray; thine aids be heaven and earth,

And justice guide the right to victory.

[To the Chorus.

Thus have I prayed, and thus I shed these streams,

And follow ye the wont, and as with flowers

Crown ye with many a tear and cry the dirge

Your lips ring out above the dead man's grave.

[She pours the libations.

Woe, woe, woe!

Let the teardrop fall, plashing on the ground

Where our lord lies low:

Fall and cleanse away the cursed libation's stain,

Shed on this grave-mound,

Fenced wherein together, gifts of good or bane

From the dead are found.

Lord of Argos, hearken!

Though around thee darken

Mist of death and hell, arise and hear!

Hearken and awaken to our cry of woe!

Who with might of spear

Shall our home deliver?

Who like Ares bend until it quiver,

Bend the northern bow?

Who with hand upon the hilt himself will thrust with glaive,

Thrust and slay and save?