Page:House of Atreus 2nd ed (1889).djvu/180

144 Woe on the altar of earth's central fane!

Clotted on step and shrine,

Behold, the guilt of blood, the ghastly stain!

Woe upon thee, Apollo! uncontrolled,

Unbidden, hast thou, prophet-god, imbrued

The pure prophetic shrine with wrongful blood!

For thou too heinous a respect didst hold

Of man, too little heed of powers divine!

And us the Fates, the ancients of the earth,

Didst deem as nothing worth.

Scornful to me thou art, yet shalt not fend

My wrath from him; though unto hell he flee,

There too are we!

And he the blood-defiled, should feel and rue,

Though I were not, fiend-wrath that shall not end,

Descending on his head who foully slew.

[Re-enter Apollo from the inner shrine.

Out! I command you. Out from this my home—

Haste, tarry not! Out from the mystic shrine,

Lest thy lot be to take into thy breast

The winged bright dart that from my golden string

Speeds hissing as a snake,—lest, pierced and thrilled

With agony, thou shouldst spew forth again

Black frothy heart's-blood, drawn from mortal men,

Belching the gory clots sucked forth from wounds.

These be no halls where such as you can prowl—

Go where men lay on men the doom of blood,