LXV.

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 death'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.