The sacrificer of his daughter — strange! — He dared become, to expedite Woman-avenging warfare, — anchors weighed With such prelusive rite!
 Prayings and callings Father — naught they made Of these, and of the virgin-age, — Captains heart-set on war to wage! His ministrants, vows done, the father bade — Kid-like, above the altar, swathed in pall, Take her — lift high, and have no fear at all, Head-downward, and the fair mouth’s guard And frontage hold, — press hard From utterance a curse against the House
 By dint of bit-violence bridling speech. And as to ground her saffron-vest she shed, She smote the sacrificers all and each With arrow sweet and piteous, From the eye only sped, — Significant of will to use a word, Just as in pictures: since, full many a time, 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, Honoured 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.