Chorus of Admetus.
'Tis not enough, oh! no!
To hide the scene of anguish from his eyes;
Still must our silent band
Around him watchful stand,
And on the mourner ceaseless care bestow,
That his ear catch not griefs funereal cries.
Yet, yet hope is not dead.
All is not lost below,
While yet the gods have pity on our woe.
Oft when all joy is fled,
Heaven lends support to those
Who on its care in pious hope repose.
Then to the blessed skies
Let our submissive prayers in chorus rise.
Pray! bow the knee, and pray!
What other task have mortals, born to tears,
Whom fate controls, with adamantine sway?
O ruler of the spheres!
Jove! Jove! enthron'd immortally on high,
Our supplication hear!
Nor plunge in bitterest woes,
Him, who nor footstep moves, nor lifts his eye,
But as a child, which only knows
Its father to revere.
