Yea, and man's hate tells of another, even Scylla of murderous
guile,
Who slew for an enemy's sake her father, won o'er by the
wile
And the gifts of Cretan Minos, the gauds of the high-wrought
gold;
For she clipped from her father's head the lock that should never wax
old,
As he breathed in the silence of sleep, and knew not her craft and
her crime-
But Hermes, the guard of the dead, doth grasp her, in fulness of time.
strophe 3
And since of the crimes of the cruel I tell, let my singing
record
The bitter wedlock and loveless, the curse on these halls
outpoured,
The crafty device of a woman, whereby did a chieftain
fall,
A warrior stern in his wrath, the fear of his enemies
all,-
A song of dishonour, untimely! and cold is the hearth that was
warm,
And ruled by the cowardly spear, the woman's unwomanly arm.
Studies
