And with life’s purple-gushing tide,
Imbrue a father’s hand, beside
The altar of the gods.
This way or that is ill: for how
Shall I despise my federate vow?
How leave the ships? That all conspire
Thus hotly to desire
The virgin’s blood—wind-soothing sacrifice—
Is the gods’ right. So be it.[n22]
STROPHE IV.