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Behold, and ye dread Furies of the slain,

Behold us, outcast, miserable twain;

Poor remnant of the Atridæ;—whither go?

Oh! Sov'reign Zeus, what refuge from our woe?

Throbbeth my woman's heart with fear,

The while thy dirge mine ear assails;

At one time hopeful courage wanes,

And darkness o'er my inmost reins

Broods, as the doleful sound I hear.

Then once again kind hope prevails;

She with new strength uplifts my heart,

And, full of grace, bids conscious grief depart.

Can grief by flattery be subdued,

Or soothed by fawning? No, to quell the pain

By parent's hate engendered, charms are vain;

Like savage wolf that ravens for its food,

Tameless from birth is sorrow's torturing brood.

With Arian beat I strike my breast;

My outstretched hands in wild unrest,

With Kissian mourner's rhythmic woe,

In quick succession,—to and fro,

Shower from all quarters blow on blow;

While with the burly rings amain

My battered head and my distracted brain.