42
Yes! once was Proserpine thy sole delight:
Now, as thou seest, enchain'd in blackest night,
Enduring torments; while, with choral song,
Thou proudly passest Phrygia's towns among.
O! if one spark of love still warms thy heart,
And—not a tigress fell—but—thou my Mother art,
Release thy suppliant from this dungeon drear;
Or—that denied—be thou my comfort here!"
She spake, and strove to raise her trembling hands;
The load of iron her attempt withstands,
And its loud clang the Matron's slumber breaks:
She, pleased to find it but a dream, awakes;
Yet grieved her dear one's fond embrace to lose,
In frantic haste to great Cybelle goes,
And thus accosts her: "Here no more I stay;
O, holy Mother, I am call'd away
By sacred duty to the pledge I left
Exposed to guile, of guardianship bereft.
My palace halls the Cyclops forged in vain;
Wide-spreading rumour tells what they contain:
Trinacria fails to hide the cherish'd pile;
Too known, too famous is the noble isle.
Some humbler resting-place my soul desires,
Apart from Etna's roar, and penal fires.
