A noise is arisen against us of waters, [_Str._ 1. A sound as of battle come up from the sea. Strange hunters are hard on us, hearts without pity; They have staked their nets round the fair young city, That the sons of her strength and her virgin daughters Should find not whither alive to flee. And we know not yet of the word unwritten, [_Ant._ 1. The doom of the Pythian we have not heard; From the navel of earth and the veiled mid altar We wait for a token with hopes that falter, 160 With fears that hang on our hearts thought-smitten Lest her tongue be kindled with no good word. O thou not born of the womb, nor bred [_Str._ 2. In the bride-night's warmth of a changed God's bed, But thy life as a lightning was flashed from the light of thy father's head, O chief God's child by a motherless birth, If aught in thy sight we indeed be worth, Keep death from us thou, that art none of the Gods of the dead under earth. Thou that hast power on us, save, if thou wilt; [_Ant._ 2. Let the blind wave breach not thy wall scarce built; 170 But bless us not so as by bloodshed, impute not for grace to us guilt, Nor by price of pollution of blood set us free; Let the hands be taintless that clasp thy knee, Nor a maiden be slain to redeem for a maiden her shrine from the sea. O earth, O sun, turn back [_Str._ 3. Full on his deadly track Death, that would smite you black and mar your creatures, And with one hand disroot All tender flower and fruit, With one strike blind and mute the heaven's fair features, 180 Pluck out the eyes of morn, and make Silence in the east and blackness whence the bright songs break. Help, earth, help, heaven, that hear [_Ant._ 3. The song-notes of our fear, Shrewd notes and shrill, not clear or joyful-sounding; Hear, highest of Gods, and stay Death on his hunter's way, Full on his forceless prey his beagles hounding; Break thou his bow, make short his hand, Maim his fleet foot whose passage kills the living land. 190 Let a third wave smite not us, father, [_Str._ 4. Long since sore smitten of twain, Lest the house of thy son's son perish And his name be barren on earth. Whose race wilt thou comfort rather If none to thy son remain? Whose seed wilt thou choose to cherish If his be cut off in the birth? For the first fair graft of his graffing [_Ant._ 4. Was rent from its maiden root 200 By the strong swift hand of a lover Who fills the night with his breath; On the lip of the stream low-laughing Her green soft virginal shoot Was plucked from the stream-side cover By the grasp of a love like death. For a God's was the mouth that kissed her [_Str._ 5. Who speaks, and the leaves lie dead, When winter awakes as at warning To the sound of his foot from Thrace. 210 Nor happier the bed of her sister Though Love's self laid her abed By a bridegroom beloved of the morning And fair as the dawn's own face. For Procris, ensnared and ensnaring [_Ant._ 5. By the fraud of a twofold wile, With the point of her own spear stricken By the gift of her own hand fell. Oversubtle in doubts, overdaring In deeds and devices of guile, 220 And strong to quench as to quicken, O Love, have we named thee well? By thee was the spear's edge whetted [_Str._ 6. That laid her dead in the dew, In the moist green glens of the midland By her dear lord slain and thee. And him at the cliff's end fretted By the grey keen waves, him too, Thine hand from the white-browed headland Flung down for a spoil to the sea. 230 But enough now of griefs grey-growing [_Ant._ 6. Have darkened the house divine, Have flowered on its boughs and faded, And green is the brave stock yet. O father all-seeing and all-knowing, Let the last fruit fall not of thine From the tree with whose boughs we are shaded, From the stock that thy son's hand set.