In her sire's guest-hall, by the well-heaped board
Had she made music,—lovingly with chime
Of her chaste voice, that unpolluted thing,
Honored the third libation,—paian that should bring
Good fortune to the sire she loved so well.
What followed—those things I nor saw nor tell.
But Kalchas' arts—whate'er they indicate—
Miss of fulfilment never: it is fate.
True, justice makes, in sufferers, a desire
To know the future woe preponderate.