_Chor._ I stand perplexed in soul, deprived of power
Of quick and ready thought,
Where now to turn, since thus 1510
Our home is falling low.
I shrink in fear from the fierce pelting storm
Of blood that shakes the basement of the house:
No more it rains in drops:
And for another deed of mischief dire,
Fate whets the righteous doom
On other whetstones still.