And so the wrath which doth its work fulfil To Ilion brought, well-named, A marriage marring all, avenging still For friendship wronged and shamed, And outrage foul on Zeus, of host and guest The guardian God, from those who then did raise The bridal hymn of marriage-feast unblest Which called the bridegroom's kin to shouts of praise. But now by woe oppressed Priam's ancient city waileth very sore, And calls on Paris unto dark doom wed, Suffering yet more and more For all the blood of heroes vainly shed, And bearing through the long protracted years A life of wailing grief and bitter tears. STROPHE II One was there who did rear A lion's whelp within his home to dwell, A monster waking fear, Weaned from the mother's milk it loved so well: Then in life's dawning light, Loved by the children, petted by the old, Oft in his arms clasped tight, As one an infant newly-born would hold, With eye that gleamed beneath the fondling hand, And fawning as at hunger's strong command. ANTISTROPHE II But soon of age full grown, It showed the inbred nature of its sire, And wrought unasked, alone, A feast to be that fostering nurture's hire; Gorged full with slaughtered sheep, The house was stained with blood as with a curse No slaves away could keep, A murderous mischief waxing worse and worse, Sent as from God a priest from Atè fell, And reared within the man's own house to dwell. STROPHE III So I would say to Ilion then there came Mood as of calm when every wind is still, The gentle pride and joy of noble fame, The eye's soft glance that all the soul doth thrill; Love's full-blown flower that brings The thorn that wounds and stings; And yet she turned aside, And of the marriage feast wrought bitter end, Coming to dwell where Priam's sons abide, Ill sojourner, ill friend, Sent by great Zeus, the God of host and guest, A true Erinnys, by all wives unblest. ANTISTROPHE III There lives a saying framed of ancient days, And in men's minds imprinted firm and fast, That great good fortune never childless stays, But brings forth issue,—that on fame at last There rushes on apace Great woe for all the race; But I, apart, alone, Hold a far other and a worthier creed: The impious act is by ill issue known, Most like the parent deed; While still for all who love the Truth and Right, Good fortune prospers, fairer and more bright. STROPHE IV