And loud lamented every guest Who held the Sea-God's solemn feast-- As in a single heart prevailing, Throughout all Hellas went the wailing. Wild to the Council Hall they ran-- In thunder rush'd the threat'ning Flood-- "Revenge shall right the murder'd man, The last atonement-blood for blood!" Yet 'mid the throng the Isthmus claims, Lured by the Sea-God's glorious games-- The mighty many-nation'd throng-- How track the hand that wrought the wrong?-- How guess if that dread deed were done, By ruffian hands, or secret foes? He who sees all on earth--the SUN-- Alone the gloomy secret knows. Perchance he treads in careless peace, Amidst your Sons, assembled Greece; Hears with a smile revenge decreed; Gloats with fell joy upon the deed. His steps the avenging gods may mock Within the very Temple's wall, Or mingle with the crowds that flock To yonder solemn scenic[9] hall. Wedg'd close, and serried, swarms the crowd-- Beneath the weight the walls are bow'd-- Thitherwards streaming far, and wide, Broad Hellas flows in mingled tide tide-- A tide like that which heaves the deep When hollow-sounding, shoreward driven; On, wave on wave, the thousands sweep Till arching, row on row, to heaven! The tribes, the nations, who shall name, That guest-like, there assembled came? From Theseus' town, from Aulis' strand-- From Phocis, from the Spartans' land-- From Asia's wave-divided clime, The Isles that gem the Ægean Sea, To hearken on that Stage Sublime, The Dark Choir's mournful melody! True to the awful rites of old, In long and measured strides, behold The Chorus from the hinder ground, Pace the vast circle's solemn round. So this World's women never strode-- Their race from Mortals ne'er began; Gigantic, from their grim abode, They tower above the Sons of Man! Across their loins the dark robe clinging, In fleshless hands the torches swinging, Now to and fro, with dark red glow-- No blood that lives the dead cheeks know! Where flow the locks that woo to love On _human_ temples--ghastly dwell The serpents, coil'd the brow above, And the green asps with poison swell. Thus circling, horrible, within That space--doth their dark hymn begin, And round the sinner as they go, Cleave to the heart their words of woe. Dismally wails, the senses chilling, The hymn--the FURIES' solemn song; And froze the very marrow thrilling As roll'd the gloomy sounds along. And weal to him--from crime secure-- Who keeps his soul as childhood's pure; Life's path he roves, a wanderer free-- We near him not-THE AVENGERS, WE, But woe to him for whom we weave The doom for deeds that shun the light: Fast to the murderer's feet we cleave, The fearful Daughters of the Night.