Cassandra.
Ah! can the ghostly guidance fail,
Whereby my prophet-soul is onwards led?
Look! for their flesh the spectre-children wail,
Their sodden limbs on which their father fed!
Chorus.
Long since we knew of thy prophetic fame,—
But for those deeds we seek no prophet's tongue.
Cassandra.
God! 'tis another crime—
Worse than the storied woe of olden time,
Cureless, abhorred, that one is plotting here—
A shaming death, for those that should be dear!
Alas! and far away in foreign land
He that should help doth stand!
Chorus.
I knew th' old tales, the city rings withal—
But now thy speech is dark beyond my ken.
Cassandra.
O wretch, O purpose fell!
Thou for thy wedded lord
The cleansing wave hast poured—
A treacherous welcome!
How the sequel tell?
Too soon 'twill come, too soon, for now, even now,
She smites him, blow on blow!
Chorus.
Riddles beyond my rede—I peer in vain
Thro' the dim films that screen the prophecy.
