Born from the touch of Zeus, the child received.
On him, on him I cry,
And him for patron hold--
While in this grassy vale I stand,
Where lo roamed of old!
And here, recounting all her toil and pain,
Signs will I show to those who rule the land
That I am child of hers; and all shall understand,
Hearing the doubtful tale of the dim past made plain.
And, ere the end shall be,
Each man the truth of what I tell shall see.
And if there dwell hard by
One skilled to read from bird-notes augury,
That man, when through his ears shall thrill our
tearful wail,
Shall deem he hears the voice, the plaintive tale
Of her, the piteous spouse of Tereus, lord of guile--
Whom the hawk harries yet, the mourning nightingale.
She, from her happy home and fair streams scared
away,
Wails wild and sad for haunts beloved erewhile.
Yea, and for Itylus--ah, well-a-day!
Slain by her own, his mother's hand,
Maddened by lustful wrong, the deed by Tereus
planned.
Like her I wail and wail, in soft Ionian tones,
And as she wastes, even so
Wastes my soft cheek, once ripe with Nilus' suns
And all my heart dissolves in utter woe
Sad flowers of grief I cull,