ANTISTROPHE I. Mother Night that bore me, The Fate that was before me, This portion gave me surely, This lot for mine securely, To bear the scourge before thee, O Mother Night! {152} And, in embrace untender To hold the red offender, That sinned in gods' despite, And wheresoe'er he wend him, His keepers close we tend him. In living or in dying, From us there is no flying, The daughters of the Night. Where the victim lies, Let the death-hymn rise! Lift ye the hymn of the Furies amain! The gleeless song, and the lyreless strain, That bindeth the heart with a viewless chain, With notes of distraction and maddening sorrow, Blighting the brain, and burning the marrow! Where the victim lies, Let the death-hymn rise, The hymn that binds with a viewless chain! STROPHE II. From primal ages hoary, This lot, our pride and glory, Appointed was to us; To Hades' gloomy portal, To chase the guilty mortal, But from Olympians, reigning In lucid seats,[f13] abstaining; Their nectared feasts we taste not, Their sun-white robes invest not The maids of Erebus. But, with scourge and with ban, We prostrate the man, Who with smooth-woven wile, And a fair-faced smile, Hath planted a snare for his friend; Though fleet, we shall find him, Though strong, we shall bind him, Who planted a snare for his friend. ANTISTROPHE II. This work of labour earnest,[n32] This task severest, sternest, {153} Let none remove from us. To all their due we render, Each deeply-marked offender Our searching eye reproveth, Though blissful Jove removeth, From his Olympian glory, Abhorr'd of all and gory, The maids of Erebus. But, swift as the wind, We follow and find, Till he stumbles apace, Who had hoped in the race, To escape from the grasp of the Furies! And we trample him low, Till he writhe in his woe, Who had fled from the chase of the Furies. STROPHE III. The thoughts heaven-scaling Of men haughty-hearted, At our breath, unavailing Like smoke they departed. Our jealous foot hearing, They stumble before us, And bite the ground, fearing Our dark-vested chorus. ANTISTROPHE III. They fall, and perceive not The foe that hath found them; They are blind and believe not, Thick darkness hath bound them. From the halls of the fated, A many-voiced wailing Of sorrow unsated Ascends unavailing.