We Sisters came with lutes and psalteries,Provoked to meet in bitter strife of songThat mountain wizard, and made dark the eyesOf Thamyris, who wrought sweet music wrong.I bore thee, Child; and then, in shame beforeMy sisterhood, my dear virginity,I stood again upon thy Father’s shoreAnd cast thee to the deeps of him; and heReceived and to no mortal nursing gaveHis child, but to the Maidens of the Wave.And well they nursed thee, and a king thou wastAnd first of Thrace in war; yea, far and nearThrough thine own hills thy bloody chariot passed,Thy battered helm flashed, and I had no fear;Only to Troy I charged thee not to go:I knew the fated end: but Hector’s cry,Borne overseas by embassies of woe,Called thee to battle for thy friends and die.And thou, Athena—nothing was the deedOdysseus wrought this night nor Diomede—