Lament XV

Golden-locked Erato¹, and thou, sweet lute,

The comfort of the sad and destitute,

Calm thou my sorrow, lest I too become

A marble pillar shedding through the dumb

But living stone my almost bloody tears,

A monument of grief for coming years.

For when we think of mankind’s evil chance

Does not our private grief gain temperance?

Unhappy mother² (if ’tis evil hap