STROPHE II Henceforth let no man in his anguish call, When he sore-smitten by ill-chance shall fall, Uttering with groan and moan, “O mighty Justice, O Erinnyes' throne!” So may a father or a mother wail, Struck by new woe, and tell their sorrow's tale; For low on earth doth lie The home where Justice once her dwelling had on high. ANTISTROPHE II Yea, there are times when reverent Awe should stay As guardian of the soul; It profits much to learn through suffering The bliss of self-control. Who that within the heart's full daylight bears No touch of holy awe, Be it or man or State that casts out fear, Will still own reverence for the might of law? STROPHE III Nor life that will no sovran rule obey, Nor one down-crushed beneath a despot's sway, Shalt thou approve; God still gives power and strength for victory To all that in the golden mean doth lie. All else, as they in diverse order move, He scans with watchful eye. With this I speak a word in harmony, That of irreverence still Outrage is offspring ill, While from the soul's true health Comes the much-loved, much-prayed-for joy and wealth. ANTISTROPHE III Yes, this I bid thee know; Bow thou before the altar of the Right, And let no wandering glance That looks at gain askance Lead thee with godless foot to scorn or slight. Know well the appointed penalty shall come; The doom remaineth sure and will at last strike home. Wherefore let each man pay the reverence due To those who call him son; By each to thronging guests let honour true In loyal faith be done. STROPHE IV But one who with no pressure of constraint Of his free will draws back from evil taint, He shall not be unblest, Nor ever sink by utter woe oppressed. But this I still aver, That he whose daring leads him to transgress, The chaos wild of evil deeds to stir, In sharp and sore distress, Against his will will slacken sail ere long, When, as his timbers crash before the blast, He feels the tempest strong. ANTISTROPHE IV Then in the midst of peril he at last Shall call on those who then will hear him not. Yea, God still laughs to scorn The man by evil tide of passions borne, Swayed by thoughts wild and hot, When he beholdeth one whose boast was high He ne'er should know it, sunk in misery, And all unable round the point to steer; And so his former pride of prosperous days He wrecks upon the reefs of Vengeance drear, And dies with none to weep him or to praise. THE END TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES