Though, outworn with sorrow, with hours of torturous anguish,
Ortalus, I no more tarry the Muses among;
Though from a fancy deprest fair blooms of poesy budding
Rise not at all; such grief rocks me, uneasily stirr'd:
Coldly but even now mine own dear brother in ebbing
Lethe his ice-wan feet laveth, a shadowy ghost.
He whom Troy's deep bosom, a shore Rhoetean above him,
Rudely denies these eyes, heavily crushes in earth.
Ah! no more to address thee, or hear thy kindly replying,
Brother! O e'en than life round me delightfuller yet,
Ne'er to behold thee again! Still love shall fail not alone in
Fancy to muse d**h's dark elegy, closely to weep.
Closely as under boughs of dimmest shadow the pensive
Daulian ever moans Itys in agony slain.
Yet mid such desolation a verse I tender of ancient
Battiades, new-drest, Ortalus, wholly for you.
Lest to the roving winds these words all idly deliver'd,
Seem too soon from a frail memory fallen away.
E'en as a furtive gift, sent, some love-apple, a-wooing,
Leaps from breast of a coy maiden, a canopy pure;
There forgotten alas, mid vestments silky reposing,—
Soon as a mother's step starts her, it hurleth adown:
Straight to the ground, dash'd forth ungently, the gift shoots headlong;
She in tell-tale cheeks glows a disorderly shame.