soul's sickness: (1) He has forgotten his own true nature; (2) he
knows not the end towards which the whole universe tends; (3) he
knows not the means by which the world is governed.




BOOK I.



SONG I.

BOETHIUS' COMPLAINT.


Who wrought my studious numbers
Smoothly once in happier days,
Now perforce in tears and sadness
Learn a mournful strain to raise.
Lo, the Muses, grief-dishevelled,
Guide my pen and voice my woe;
Down their cheeks unfeigned the tear drops
To my sad complainings flow!
These alone in danger's hour
Faithful found, have dared attend
On the footsteps of the exile
To his lonely journey's end.
These that were the pride and pleasure
Of my youth and high estate