_The Fury:_ Thou curséd shade, Be gone, and to the verge of madness drive Thine impious house. Be drawn the deadly sword 25 To every crime upraised, by every hand; Of angry passions let there be no end, No shame of strife; let blinded fury's sting Prick on their souls; seared by the breath of rage May parents' hearts grow hard, and endless crime To childrens' children drag its impious trail. No time be given to hate their former crimes; But let the new in quick succession rise, 30 Not one alone in each; and may their crimes, E'en while they suffer punishment, increase. Let the throne fall from the haughty brothers' grasp, And call them back from exiled wanderings. Let the tottering fortune of this bloody house, Amid its changing kings in ruins fall. Bring him of high estate to wretchedness, 35 The wretched raise; and let the kingdom toss Upon the seething tide of circumstance. By crime driven out, when God shall bring them home, May they return but to still other crimes, And by all men as by themselves be loathed. Let nothing be which wrath deems unallowed: Let brother brother fear, and parent child; 40 Let son fear father; let the children die An evil death--by doubly evil birth Be born. Let wives against their husbands lift Their murderous hands. Let wars pass over seas, And every land be drenched with streams of blood. Triumphant o'er the mighty kings of earth, Let Lust exult; and in thy sinful house, 45 Let vile, incestuous deeds seem trivial. Let justice, faith, fraternal amity Be trampled underfoot; and of our sins Let not the heavens themselves escape the taint. Why gleam the constellations in the sky, And flash their wonted glories to the world? 50 Be pitchy black the night, and let the day Fall fainting from the heavens and be no more. Embroil thy household gods, rouse murderous hate, And all the palace fill with Tantalus. Adorn the lofty columns; let the doors, With verdant laural decked, proclaim their joy; Let torches gleam in celebration meet 55 Of thy return--then let the Thracian crime Be done again, but triply hideous. Why stays the uncle's hand in idleness? Not yet Thyestes weeps his murdered sons. When will he act? The kettles o'er the fires Should even now be boiling, severed limbs 60 Be broken up, the father's hearth be stained With children's blood, the festal tables spread. But at no untried carnival of crime Wilt thou sit down as guest. This day be free, And sate thy hunger at that festal board; Go eat thy fill, and drink the blood and wine 65 Commingled in thy sight. A banquet this, Which thou thyself wouldst look in horror on.-- But stay thee.