Oh, the torment bred in the race, the grinding scream of deathand the stroke that hits the vein,the hemorrhage none can staunch, the grief,the curse no man can bear.But there is a cure in the house, and not outside it, no,not from others but from them,their bloody strife. We sing to you,dark gods beneath the earth.Now hear, you blissful powers underground --answer the call, send help.Bless the children, give them triumph now.

And there they ring the walls, the young, the lithe. The handsome hold the graves they won in Troy; the enemy earth rides over those who conquered.

Unjustly men hate death, which is the greatest defence against their many ills.

Pain lays not its touch upon a corpse.

Of all the gods only death does not desire gifts.

For a single path leads to the house of Hades.

But when once the earth has sucked up a dead man's blood, there is no way to raise him up.