Expect no wavering, no retreat, no change.
And now I leave thee to these rites, esteem'd
Pious, but impious, surely, if their scope
Be to foment old memories of wrath.
Pray, as thou pour'st libations on this tomb,
To be deliver'd from thy foster'd hate,
Unjust suspicion, and erroneous fear.

[POLYPHONTES _goes into the palace._ THE CHORUS
_and_ MEROPE _approach the tomb with their
offerings._

_The Chorus_

Draw, draw near to the tomb! _strophe._
Lay honey-cakes on its marge,
Pour the libation of milk,
Deck it with garlands of flowers.
Tears fall thickly the while!
Behold, O King from the dark
House of the grave, what we do!

O Arcadian hills, _antistrophe._
Send us the Youth whom ye hide,
Girt with his coat for the chase,
With the low broad hat of the tann'd
Hunter o'ershadowing his brow;
Grasping firm, in his hand
Advanced, two javelins, not now
Dangerous alone to the deer!

_Merope_

What shall I bear, O lost _str._ 1
Husband and King, to thy grave?--
Pure libations, and fresh
Flowers? But thou, in the gloom,
Discontented, perhaps,
Demandest vengeance, not grief?
Sternly requirest a man,
Light to spring up to thy house?

_The Chorus_

Vengeance, O Queen, is his due, _str._ 2
His most just prayer; yet his house--
If that might soothe him below--
Prosperous, mighty, came back
In the third generation, the way
Order'd by Fate, to their home;
And now, glorious, secure,
Fill the wealth-giving thrones
Of their heritage, Pelops' isle.

_Merope_

Suffering sent them, Death _ant._ 1.
March'd with them, Hatred and Strife
Met them entering their halls.
For from the day when the first
Heracleidae received
That Delphic hest to return,
What hath involved them, but blind
Error on error, and blood?

_The Chorus_

Truly I hear of a Maid _ant._ 2.
Of that stock born, who bestow'd
Her blood that so she might make
Victory sure to her race,
When the fight hung in doubt! but she now,
Honour'd and sung of by all,
Far on Marathon plain,
Gives her name to the spring
Macaria, blessed Child.

_Merope_

She led the way of death.