ead me home, that his hot mood
Be spent on younger objects, till he learn
To keep a safer mind and calmer tongue. [_Exit_

CH. Sire, there is terror in that prophecy.
He who is gone, since ever these my locks,
Once black, now white with age, waved o'er my brow,
Hath never spoken falsely to the state.

CR. I know it, and it shakes me to the core.
To yield is dreadful: but resistingly
To face the blow of fate, is full of dread.

CH. The time calls loud on wisdom, good my lord.

CR. What must I do? Advise me. I will obey.

CH. Go and release the maiden from the vault,
And make a grave for the unburied dead.

CR. Is that your counsel? Think you I will yield?

CH. With all the speed thou mayest: swift harms from heaven
With instant doom o'erwhelm the froward man.

CR. Oh! it is hard. But I am forced to this
Against myself. I cannot fight with Destiny.

CH. Go now to do it. Trust no second hand.

CR. Even as I am, I go. Come, come, my people.
Here or not here, with mattocks in your hands
Set forth immediately to yonder hill!
And, since I have ta'en this sudden turn, myself,
Who tied the knot, will hasten to unloose it.
For now the fear comes over me, 'tis best
To pass one's life in the accustomed round. [_Exeunt_

CHORUS.
O God of many a name! I 1
Filling the heart of that Cadmeian bride
With deep delicious pride,
Offspring of him who wields the withering flame!
Thou for Italia's good
Dost care, and 'midst the all-gathering bosom wide[7]
Of Deo dost preside;
Thou, Bacchus, by Ismenus' winding waters
'Mongst Thebe's frenzied daughters,
Keep'st haunt, commanding the fierce dragon's brood.

Thee o'er the forked hill I 2
The pinewood flame beholds, where Bacchai rove,
Nymphs of Corycian grove,
Hard by the flowing of Castalia's rill.
To visit Theban ways,
By bloomy wine-cliffs flushing tender bright
'Neath far Nyseian height
Thou movest o'er the ivy-mantled mound,
While myriad voices sound
Loud strains of 'Evoe!' to thy deathless praise.

For Thebe thou dost still uphold, II 1
First of cities manifold,
Thou and the nymph whom lightning made
Mother of thy radiant head.
Come then with healing for the violent woe
That o'er our peopled land doth largely flow,
Passing the high Parnassian steep
Or moanin