But thou, take courage when the time is come, The time to act indeed, And when she calls thee “child,” do thou strike home, And let thy father's name for vengeance plead; Do thy dread taskwork to the uttermost. ANTISTROPHE IV Let Perseus' heart within thy bosom dwell, For thou dost work for each dear kindred ghost, And those on high, a bitter boon and fell, Completing there within The deed of blood and sin, And utterly destroying him whose hand That crime of murder planned. EUMENIDES VERSES 297-374 Come then, and let us dance in solemn strain; It is our will to chant our harsh refrain, And tell how this our band Works among men the tasks we take in hand. In righteous vengeance find we full delight; On him who putteth forth clean hands and pure No wrath from us doth light; Unhurt shall he through all his life endure; But whoso, as this man, hath evil wrought, And hides hands stained with blood, On him we come, with power prevailing fraught, True witnesses and good, For those whom he has slain, and bent to win Full forfeit-price for that his deed of sin. STROPHE I O Mother, Mother Night! Who did'st bear me a penalty and curse To those who see and those who see not light, Hear thou; for Leto's son, in mood perverse, Puts me to foulest shame, In that he robs me of my trembling prey, The victim whom we claim, That we his mother's blood may wash away; And over him as slain Sing we this dolorous, frenzied, maddening strain, The song that we, the Erinnyes, love so well, That binds the soul as with enchanter's spell, Without one note from out the sweet-voiced lyre, Withering the strength of men as with a blast of fire. ANTISTROPHE I For this our task hath Fate Spun without fail to last for ever sure, That we on man weighed down with deeds of hate Should follow till the earth his life immure. Nor when he dies can he Boast of being truly free; And over him as slain Sing we this dolorous, frenzied, maddening strain, The song that we, the Erinnyes, love so well, That binds the soul as with enchanter's spell, Without one note from out the sweet-voiced lyre, Withering the strength of men as with a blast of fire. STROPHE II Yea, at our birth this lot to us was given, And from the immortal Ones who dwell in Heaven We still must hold aloof; None sits with us at banquets of delight, Or shares a common roof, Nor part nor lot have I in garments white; My choice was made a race to overthrow, When murder, home-reared, lays a loved one low; Strong though he be, upon his track we tread, And drain his blood till all his strength is fled.