Then with my prosperous hymn the lyre shall blend
Its kindly chorus,
And Argos shall be glad, and every friend
Rejoice before us!
Gird thee with manhood, boy; though hard to do,
It is thy father’s work; to him be true.
And, when she cries—Son, wilt thou kill thy Mother?
Cry—Father, Father! and with that name smother
The rising ruth. As Perseus, when he slew
The stony Dread,[f9] was stony-hearted, do