A suppliant sable-stoled, to mix with thine
My tears, and at thy shrine
Kindle a funeral torch for Sicily:
Give not the suppliant’s prayer the meed of blame!
Scorn not the stranger’s proffered oil and wine!
O thou from whom the heavenly madness came,
When Orpheus hymning struck his golden lute,
And stirred old memories in Persephone,
While all the lonely shades in hell stood mute
To watch the still-beloved Eurydice