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94 None on high festivals will fend thy shrine.

Stoop thou to raise us! strong the race shall grow,

Though puny now it seem, and fallen low.

O children, saviours of your father's home,

Beware ye of your words, lest one should hear

And bear them, for the tongue hath lust to tell,

Unto our masters—whom God grant to me

In pitchy reek of fun'ral flame to see!

Nay, mighty is Apollo's oracle

And shall not fail me, whom it bade to pass

Thro' all this peril; clear the voice rang out

With many warnings, sternly threatening

To my hot heart the wintry chill of pain

Unless upon the slayers of my sire

I pressed for vengeance: this the god's command—

That I, in ire for home and wealth despoiled,

Should with a craft like theirs the slayers slay:

Else with my very life I should atone

This deed undone, in many a ghastly wise.

For he proclaimed unto the ears of men

That offerings, poured to angry powers of death,

Exude again, unless their will be done,

As grim disease on those that poured them forth—

As leprous ulcers mounting on the flesh

And with fell fangs corroding what of old

Wore natural form; and on the brow arise

White poisoned hairs, the crown of this disease.

He spake moreover of assailing fiends

Empowered to quit on me my father's blood,

Wreaking their wrath on me, what time in night