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Him with dull'd brow the Delian God deplores,
Him mourn the shattered reeds on lone Cephisus' shores.
She on whom plenty's Goddess rests her hope,
Toils above all, and gives her ardour scope;
Lithe osier baskets with her plunder fills,
And twines, unconscious of impending ills,
The flowers in union sweet, to crown her head,
Predestined omen of her bridal bed.
She too—the Queen, who takes her stern delight
In clang of steel, and trumpet call to fight,
Struck by whose fatal hand whole armies fall,
"Who bursts the portal, and uproots the wall—
That hand, the spear forsaking, yields to play,
And e'en her helmet wreathes with chaplets gay;
Lulls the fierce rage of war to peaceful rest,
And tames the terrors of her gleaming crest.
Nor She who threads—where scent of game abounds—
Parthenian thickets with her eager hounds,
Their mirth disdains—content a wreath to wear,
That just confines the freedom of her hair.
As thoughtless thus they sport in maiden wise,
A bellowing sound from earth begins to rise,
And many a stately tower and gorgeous fane
Upheaved in shapeless ruin strew the plain.
