Sharp arrows through the subterranean night,
Shot by dear Shades that through the Infernal halls
Roam peaceless, madness, and vain fear o’ nights,
Prick with sharp goads, and chase from street to street,
With iron scourge, the meagre-wasted form
Of the Fury-hunted sinner; him no share
In festal cup awaits, or hallowed drop
Of pure libation;[n25] the paternal wrath,
Hovering unseen, shall drive him from the altar;
Him shall no home receive, no lodgment hold,