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Farewell then as thou mayst,—the god thy friend

Guard thee and aid with chances favouring.

Behold, the storm of woe divine

That raves and beats on Atreus' line

Its great third blast hath blown.

First was Thyestes' loathly woe—

The rueful feast of long ago,

On children's flesh, unknown.

And next the kingly chief's despite,

When he who led the Greeks to fight

Was in the bath hewn down.

And now the offspring of the race

Stands in the third, the saviour's place,—

To save—or to consume?

O whither, ere it be fulfilled,

Ere its fierce blast be hushed and stilled,

Shall blow the wind of doom?

[Exeunt.