When the death-cloud hung close to her brow,

Ye have banished the wound and the fire,

Oh! come to us now!

[They tell of the Pestilence.

Wounds beyond telling; my people sick unto death;

And where is the counsellor, where is the sword of thought?

And Holy Earth in her increase perisheth:

The child dies and the mother awaketh not.

I-ê! I-ê!

We have seen them, one on another, gone as a bird is gone,

Souls that are flame; yea, higher,

Swifter they pass than fire,

To the rocks of the dying Sun.

[They end by a prayer to Athena,

Athena

Their city wasteth unnumbered; their children lie

Where death hath cast them, unpitied, unwept upon.

The altars stand, as in seas of storm a high

Rock standeth, and wives and mothers grey thereon

Weep, weep and pray.

 Prev. P 22/150 next