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'Mother, alone on the shore

They drive me, far from thee:

Lo, the dip of the oar,

The black hull on the sea!

Is it the Isle Immortal,

Salamis, waits for me?

Is it the Rock that broods

Over the sundered floods

Of Corinth, the ancient portal

Of Pelops' sovranty?'

Out in the waste of foam,

Where rideth dark Menelaus,

Come to us there, O white

And jagged, with wild sea-light

And crashing of oar-blades, come,

O thunder of God, and slay us:

While our tears are wet for home,

While out in the storm go we,

Slaves of our enemy!

And, God, may Helen be there,

With mirror of gold,

Decking her face so fair,

Girl-like; and hear, and stare,

And turn death-cold:

Never, ah, never more

The hearth of her home to see,

Nor sand of the Spartan shore,

Nor tombs where her fathers be,