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In that hour around the house I was singing as I danced to that maiden of the hills, the child of Zeus;  when there rang along the town a cry of death which filled the homes of Troy, and babies in terror clung about their mothers' skirts,  as forth from their ambush came the warrior-band, the handiwork of maiden Pallas. Soon the altars ran with Phrygian blood, and desolation reigned over every bed where young men lay beheaded,  a glorious crown for Hellas won, for her, the nurse of youth, but for our Phrygian fatherland a bitter grief.
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