Of Destiny and Doom,
For one who, in the pride of wanton mood,
Spurns the great altar of the Right and Good.
Antistrophe I
Yea, a strange impulse wild
Urges him on, resistless in its might,
Atè's far-scheming child.
It knows no healing, is not hid in night,
That mischief lurid, dark;
Like bronze that will not stand the test of wear,