Where far Scamander rolls his swirling flood.
Justly who slew had drawn themselves thy lot,
And perished rather,
And thou their timeless fate had welcomed, not
They thine, my father.
Chorus.
Child, thy grief begetteth visions
Brighter than gold, and overtopping
Hyperborean bliss.[n29]
Ah, here the misery rudely riots,