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Friendless, unwept, unwed,

I wend in sorrow my appointed way;

No more may I behold this sacred ray

By yon bright glory shed,

And yet no single friend

Utters a wail for my unwept-for end.

City of Thebes, my fathers' ancient home,

Ye Gods of days of old,

I linger not. They drag me to my doom:

Princes of Thebes, behold;

See ye what I, the last of kingly race,

And at whose hands I suffer sore disgrace,

Because all holy ties I still as holy hold.

So once of old the form of Danae bore

The loss of heavenly light,

In palace strong with brazen fastenings bright,

And, in her tomb-like chamber evermore,

Did long a prisoner dwell;

Yet she, my child, my child, was high in birth,

And golden shower, that flowed from Zeus to earth,

She cherishèd right well:

Ah, strange and dread the power of Destiny,

Which neither proud and full prosperity,

Nor Ares in his power,

Nor dark, sea-beaten ships, nor tower,

Are able to defy.