Still reeking fresh with gore, on Phœbus’ hearth,
The blood of swine hath now wrought my lustration,[f12]
And I have held communings with my kind
Once and again unharming. Time, that smooths
All things, hath smoothed the front of my offence.
With unpolluted lips I now implore
Thy aid, Athena, of this land the queen.
Myself, a firm ally, I pledge to thee,
Myself, the Argive people, and their land,
Thy bloodless prize. And whether distant far