Thou horrible shadow of the Earth-born Argus!
Could not the grave close up thy hundred eyes,
But thou must come,
Haunting my path with thy suspicious look,
Unhoused from Hades?
Avaunt! avaunt!—why wilt thou hound my track,
The famished wanderer on the waste sea-shore?
STROPHE.
Pipe not thy sounding wax-compacted reed
With drowsy drone at me! Ah wretched me!