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Then learns its fate, as weeping Dryads tell,
"Hewn down by Furies with the axe of hell!"
Next she herself, with emblems veil'd no more,
Her own sad message to her Mother bore;
Whose sleeping senses view'd the hapless Maid,
Fast bound in chains, in darksome dungeon laid;
How changed from her, so late Sicilia's pride,
Admired by Nymphs on Etna's flowery side!
How soil'd the locks, once bright as brightest gold;
The sparkling eyes how dim—the cheek howpale and cold;
The snow-white limbs—the fair complexion's bloom—
How tinged with blackness from that realm of gloom!
"Scarce do I know my child," the Mother said,
"And oh! what crime can thus be visited!
Whence is that withering blight? what Power on me
Can wreak, through her, its wanton cruelty?
Why should those tender arms such fetters bind,
For savage beasts—and scarce for them—designed?
Do I thyself behold—or shadows mock my mind?"
The Maid replied—"O worse than lioness,
Thy child forsaking in her dire distress—
What strange neglect hath blotted out the name,
Which once so sweetly to thy spirit came?
