XXIV.
Saw it, or seemed to see: for ill her eyes,
Things through the air, yet dim and hazy, view.
She falls, all-trembling, on the ground, and lies
With face than snow more cold and white in hue[8]:
But when she has again found strength to rise,
Guiding her voice towards the bark which flew,
Calling with all her might, the unhappy dame
Calls often on her cruel consort’s name.
XXV.
Where unavailing was the feeble note,
She wept and clapt her hands in agony[9].
“Without its freight,” she cried, “thy ship does float.
“—Where, cruel, dost thou fly[10] so swiftly?—me
“Receive as well:—small hinderance to thy boat,
“Which bears my spirit, would my body be.”
And she her raiment waving in her hand,
Signed to the frigate to return to land[11].
XXVI.
But the loud wind which sweeping ocean, bears
The faithless stripling’s sail across the deep,
Bears off as well the shriek, and moan, and prayers
Of sad Olympia, sorrowing on the steep.
Thrice, cruel to herself, the dame prepares
From the high rock amid the waves to leap.
But from the water lifts at length her sight,
And there returns where she had passed the night.
