I always feel a peculiar satisfaction when I hear of your,
Long-drawn moans and piercing cries
Blent with prayers and litanies.
And grant that Ares whose hot breath I feel,
He stalks, whose voice is as the battle shout,
To the unharbored Thracian waters sped,
Perisheth. Father Zeus, whose hand
Doth wield the lightning brand,
Slay him beneath thy levin bold, we pray,
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