Dipping their sponge in vinegar and gall:
Want grinds them in the dust with iron feet.
Hard by the accursed sea whose waves appal,
A scape-goat lone, beneath the wingless skies,
They wander where the ashen apples fall.
Night takes for them a thousand baleful eyes,
Piercing at once their deepest hiding-place:
Straight to their heart each poisoned arrow flies.
Thrust out of camp, the scape-goat of their race,
Abhorred they live, and dead, the loathing earth