So shall our mourning thought and burning torture of spirit
Show by the dark sombre-dye of Iberian canvas spread.
But, an grant me the grace Who dwells in Sacred Itone,
(And our issue to guard and ward the seats of Erechtheus
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Sware She) that be thy right besprent with blood of the Man-Bull,
Then do thou so-wise act, and storèd in memory's heart-core
Dwell these mandates of me, no time their traces untracing.
Dip, when first shall arise our hills to gladden thy eye-glance,
Down from thine every mast th'ill-omened vestments of mourning,