In earth's dark caverns, senseless, slumber o'er The long and endless sleep, the sleep that wakes
Thou, too, in silence of the ground art laid:
The nymphs are pleased that croaking frogs
Their listening ears; and let them sing for me: The song that's discord cannot envied be.
Sicilian Muses, pour the dirge of woe:
Poison has touch'd thy lips; its venom slow
Has curdled in thy veins; and could'st thou sip,
Nor poison turn to honey on thy lip?
What man so hard could mix the draught for thee,
Or bid be mix'd, nor feel thy melody?
Sicilian Muses, pour the dirge of woe;
But retribution sure shall deal the blow:
I, in this trance of grief, still drop the tear,
And mourn for ever o'er thy livid bier;
Oh that as Orpheus, in the days of yore,
Ulysses, or Alcides, pass'd before,
I could descend to Pluto's house of night,
And mark if thou would'st Pluto's ear delight,
And listen to the song: oh then rehearse
Some sweet Sicilian strain, Bucolic verse;
To soothe the maid of Enna's vale, who sang
These Doric songs, while Ætna's uplands rang.
Not unrewarded shall thy ditties prove:
As the sweet harper Orpheus, erst could move
Her breast to yield his dear departed wife,
Treading the backward road from death to life;
So shall he melt to Bion's Dorian strain,
And send him joyous to his hills again.
Oh could my touch command the stops like thee,
I too would seek the dead, and sing thee free.
WHEN o'er the blue sea skims the whispering wind,
Scarce rippling its calm depth, I sink, resign'd
To a voluptuous indolence; the Muse
Charms not; serenest ease my senses woos.
But, when the whitening Ocean's billows flash,
The curved waves foam, and heaving surges dash,
To earth and trees I turn my backward eyes,
And shun the deep: on earth my safety lies.
I court the shady wood; where roaring blow
The blasts; but sweet the pine-tree sings below.
Ill fares the fisher on the Ocean way,
A ship his house, and gliding fish his prey.
May I, in soft delicious slumber laid,
Recline beneath some planetree's deep-leav'd shade;
And love the fountain-murmurs bubbling near,
That startle not, but lull, the shepherd's ear.
WHY should the Gods afflict me thus? or why
Ere was I born for this sad destiny?
Ah wretch! who came, in virgin blushes led
To Hercules', my noble husband's, bed;
Him, whom I held more precious than mine eyes,
Whom yet I reverence, yet most dearly prize;
But none than him a heavier curse could bear,
Nor taste a bitterer anguish of despair.
Unhappy one! the bow, by Phoebus given,
Its hideous darts by fates, or furies, driven,
He drew against his babes: their bosoms tore;
All frantic rushing; all imbathed in gore:
Yes, with these miserable eyes I saw
The father's hand his murderous weapon draw:
Oh! may another never, never see,
Ev'n in a dream, the sight that glared on me! Nor could I bear my children aid, who cried For their fond mother; but too soon they died. Ev'n as a bird mourns o'er her unfledged brood, Gorged by a dreadful snake beneath the wood;
Around and still around the mother flies,
'Tis all she can, with shrill complaining cries;
For she, though closely hovering, fears to wake
The new-rouzed spring of that terrific snake:
So I, sad mother, shrieking in despair
For my dear babes, ran maddening here and there,
Oh Dian! gentle woman's guardian power!
Would I had died in that appalling hour!
That through my heart the venom'd shaft had sped,
And I had died, where lay my children dead!
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