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"Farewell, a long farewell! remember thou,
That only to superior power we bow:
Our Sire's commandment, never disobeyed,
Forbids the proffer of our willing aid.
His act transfers thee to the silent crowd,
No more to see thy sisters dear allowed,
No more the virgins' company to keep,
Doom'd by stern Fate to seek the gloomy deep,
From these fair realms—and leave the stars to weep!
My nets I fix no more, nor quiver don;
My pleasure in Parthenian woods is gone:
Securely there may rove the foaming boar,
And tawny lions unmolested roar.
For thee Täygetus, for thee shall mourn—
No longer vocal to the hunter's horn—
The cliffs of Mænalus, the Cynthian hill;
And in the Delphic fane its oracle be still."
Sad Proserpine the while those coursers bear,
Her loosen'd tresses streaming on the air:
She beats her tender breast with frequent blows,
And pours to heaven her unregarded woes.
"Better hadst thou thy bolts against me hurl'd,
Than sent me thus an exile from the world,
