Though care, that unto me sore grief hath brought,
Calls me from converse with the sacred Nine,
Nor can my heart incline
To bring to any end inspired thought;—
(For now the wave of the Lethæan lake,
How recent hath it bathed in Death's dark vale
A brother's feet so pale;
And I can only sorrow for his sake.
The Trojan land on the Rhœtean shore
Hath hidden him for ever from these eyes,—
And I with glad surprise,
And brother's love, shall welcome thee no more.
Loved more than life, dear brother! what can I
But love thee still, and mourn for thee full long
In a funereal song,
In secret to assuage my grief thereby?
As amid many boughs all leaf-array'd
The Danlian bird, the nightingale, out-poured,
When Itys she deplored,
Her mellow sorrows in the thickest shade:)
Yet, Ortalus, 'mid tears that flow so fast,
The work of your Battiades I send,
Lest you should deem, dear friend,
Your wishes to the winds are idly cast,
And from my mind escaped, all unaware,
As falls the fruit, love's furtive gift, unbid,
In virgin bosom hid,
When she, forgetful of its lying there,
Would suddenly arise, and run to greet
The coming of her mother, from her vest
And her now loosen'd breast,
The shameless apple rolls before her feet.
And she, poor maid! abashed, and in the hush
Of shame, before her mother cannot speak,
While all her virgin cheek
Betrays her secret in the conscious blush.
Curate.—It is very tender—the last image is delicately beautiful. I did not translate it.