The sacrificer of his daughter — strange! —He dared become, to expediteWoman-avenging warfare, — anchors weighedWith such prelusive rite! Prayings and callings Father — naught they madeOf 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 guardAnd frontage hold, — press hardFrom 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 eachWith 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 boardHad she made music, — lovingly with chimeOf her chaste voice, that unpolluted thing,Honoured the third libation, — paian that should bringGood 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 desireTo know the future woe preponderate.