From us there is no flying,

The daughters of the Night.

Where the victim lies,

Let the death-hymn rise!

Lift ye the hymn of the Furies amain!

The gleeless song, and the lyreless strain,

That bindeth the heart with a viewless chain,

With notes of distraction and maddening sorrow,

Blighting the brain, and burning the marrow!

Where the victim lies,