Perplex me; on the edge of choice I tremble.
ANTISTROPHE II.
Chorus.
Him worship who sitteth a watchman in Heaven,
And looks on this life of our labour;
Nor looketh in vain, when the wretched is driven
From the gate of his pitiless neighbour.
On our knees when we fall, and for mercy we call,
If his right thou deny to the stranger,
Jove shall look on thy home, from his thunder dome,
Sternly wrathful, the suppliants’ avenger.