The house forgets its royal state,
And not a slave attends the gate.
Our sea of woe runs high:--ah, mid the waves
Appear, Great Healer, Apollo!
_They break again into loose order and marching rhythm, remaining on
the Right of the Orchestra._
_1st Semi._ Were she dead, could they keep such a silence? {94}
_2nd Semi._ May it be--she is gone from the Palace?
_1st Semi._ Never!
_2nd Semi._ Nay, why so confident answer?
_1st Semi._ To so precious a corpse could Admetus
Give burial bare of its honours?
_They reunite in Choral order and work back to the Altar._
_Antistrophe_
_Full Chorus._ Lo, no bath the porch below, {99}
Nor the cleansing fountain's flow,
Gloomy rite for house of woe.
The threshold lacks its locks of hair,
Clipp'd for the dead in death's despair.
Who hears the wailing voice and thud of hands,
The seemly woe of the maidens?
_At the Altar they again break up and fall into marching rhythm.
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