Full on his forceless prey his beagles hounding;

Break thou his bow, make short his hand,

190

Maim his fleet foot whose passage kills the living land.

[Str. 4.

Let a third wave smite not us, father,

Long since sore smitten of twain,

Lest the house of thy son's son perish

And his name be barren on earth.

Whose race wilt thou comfort rather

If none to thy son remain?

Whose seed wilt thou choose to cherish

If his be cut off in the birth?

[Ant. 4.

For the first fair graft of his graffing

200

Was rent from its maiden root

By the strong swift hand of a lover

Who fills the night with his breath;

On the lip of the stream low-laughing

 Prev. P 13/116 next