A strange death, full of fear,
That the folk beyond far seas
Should enquire thereof, and hear;
Not of our miseries!
Chorus.
My daughter, rare as gold is rare,
And blither than the skies behind
The raging of the northern wind
Are these thy prayers: for what is prayer?
Yet, be thou sure, this twofold scourge
Is heard: it pierceth to the verge
Of darkness, and your helpers now
Are wakening. These encharioted
Above us, lo, their hand is red!
Abhorrèd are they by the dead;
But none so hates as he and thou!
Orestes.
[Strophe 4
Ah me, that word, that word
Stabbeth my heart, as a sword!
God, God, who sendest from below
Blind vengeance in the wake
Of sin, what deed have I to do,
With hand most weak and full of woe?
'Tis for my father's sake!
Leader.
[Strophe 5
May it be mine, may it be mine,
To dance about the blazing pine
Crying, crying,
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