58
(So may Dione seek for Venus lost!)
Through days and nights of toil, nor count the cost,
If but 'tis mine the loved one to regain,
And thee, my daughter, to my bosom strain.
And how behold thee? still in beauty's pride,
Thy soft cheek glowing with health's rosy tide—
Or pale and wretched, as, in vision dread,
Thou stood'st at midnight o'er my slumbering head?"
Her footsteps now primeval Etna leave;
She hates the flowers that bloom'd but to deceive,
The place accursed for so foul a deed.
She marks the devious tracks; where'er they lead
Bends low her brands, their searching light lets fall;
But streaming tears obliterate them all.
Next, as through air she sails, their lustre, thrown
On some faint path, is noticed with a groan.
Her shadow dims the waves, while, strangely bright,
Italia, Lybia, catch the distant light.
Etruria's shores the glancing rays return,
The restless Syrtes glitter as they burn.
From far amphibious Scylla sees her come,
Half awed and shrinking to her cavern'd home;
Half undismayed, and eager for the fray,
With doggish bark and howl to intercept her way.
