In me are fix'd those arrows, in my breast;
But sure his wings are shorn, the boy remains;
For never takes he flight, nor knows he rest;
Still, still I feel him warring through my veins.
In these scorch'd vitals dost thou joy to dwell?
Oh shame! to others let thy arrows flee;
Let veins untouch'd with all thy venom swell;
Not me thou torturest, but the shade of me.
Destroy me—who shall then describe the fair?
This my light Muse to thee high glory brings:
When the nymph's tapering fingers, flowing hair,
And eyes of jet, and gliding feet she sings.
Elton.
NO longer, Paullus, vex with tears my tomb:
There is no prayer can open the black gate.
When once the dead have passed beneath the doom,
Barred is the adamant and vows too late.
E'en though the lord of hell should list thy prayer,
Thy tears shall idly soak the sullen shores:
Vows may move heaven; when Charon holds his fee,
The grass-grown pile stands closed by lurid doors.
So the sad trumpets told their funeral tale
While from the bier the torch dislodged my frame;
What did my husband, what my sires avail,
Or all these numerous pledges of my fame?
Did I, Cornelia, find the fates less harsh?
Five fingers now can lift my weight complete.
Accursed nights, and stagnant Stygian marsh,
And every sluggish wave that clogs my feet,
Early yet guiltless came I to this bourne;
So let the sire deal gently with my shade
If Aeacus sit judge with ordered urn,
By kin upon my bones be judgement made: