43
Each night some dream of ill my couch attends,
No weary day without itsomen ends;
My wheaten crown drops ever from my brows,
A sanguine stream from my full bosom flows;
Tears bathe my cheeks, and will not be supprest;
My hands unbidden beat my wondering breast.
I sound the pipe—it breathes a funeral moan;
I strike the timbrel—grief is in its tone.
Ah me! I fear these auguries are true,
And I my long delays am doomed to rue!"
"Discard thy terrors," Cybele replies,
"Nor deem that Jove immersed in torpor lies:
Around thy charge his guardian lightnings burn;
Yet go, and soon with tranquil mind return."
She hears, and leaves the temple—but her soul
Finds the swift chariot's wheels too slowly roll:
With needless blows she speeds her dragons' flight,
And Sicily would reach, e'er Ida fades from sight.
Her fears all hope destroy: so chafes the bird,
Whose nest the ash's pendent branches gird:
Food for her young to seek compell'd to roam,
She doubts and wonders what may chance at home:
The blast may dash her fragile dwelling down—
Some snake invade it, or some prying clown.
