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I dealt upon my breast the blow

That Asian mourning women know;

Wails from my breast the fun'ral cry,

The Cissian weeping melody;

Stretched rendingly forth, to tatter and tear,

My clenched hands wander, here and there,

From head to breast; distraught with blows

Throb dizzily my brows.

Aweless in hate, O mother, sternly brave!

As in a foeman's grave

Thou laid'st in earth a king, but to the bier

No citizen drew near,—

Thy husband, thine, yet for his obsequies,

Thou bad'st no wail arise!

Alas, the shameful burial thou dost speak!

Yet I the vengeance of his shame will wreak—

That do the gods command!

That shall achieve mine hand!

Grant me to thrust her life away, and I

Will dare to die!

List thou the deed! Hewn down and foully torn,

He to the tomb was borne;

Yea, by her hand, the deed who wrought,

With like dishonour to the grave was brought,

And by her hand she strove, with strong desire,

Thy life to crush, O child, by murder of thy sire: