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Driven from her streams and woodlands green,

Lamenting the familiar scene,

She pours a strange wild strain.

Her child she mourns in tuneful breath,

By her own hand consigned to death,

Through rage maternal slain.

Thus in Ionian strain,

Of plaint enamoured, I complain,

The while my soft, Nile-mellowed cheek I rend,

And heart aflood with tears.

Blossoms I cull of grief, while fears

Possess me, lest our suppliant band,

Escaped from that mist-shrouded land,

Find here no guardian friend.

But natal gods, whose eye

Justice regardeth, hear our cry,

Nor, beyond right, let youth its goal attain;

Abhorring haughty wrong,

Let sacred law o'er wedlock reign.

From bale, in war who worsted fly

The altar shieldeth,—bulwark strong,—

Dread awe of gods on high.

Though Zeus plan all things right,