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 Of the dark rocks Symplegades

Didst leave behind thee in thy wake.

Forlorn one, why do pangs like these

Of passion thy torn spirit shake?

Why shall stern murder of them grow?

For scarce is any cleansing found

Of kindred blood that from the ground

For vengeance cries: but like for like

The gods send curses down and strike

The slayers and their houses low.

Alas!

What shall I do? Whither run from our mother?

I know not, dearest brother, for we perish.

Dost hear thy children, hear their cry of pain?

Oh luckless woman, desperate!

Shall I within the house then? I were fain

To shield the children from such fate.