Page:Rape of Prosperine - Claudian (1854).djvu/55

 Each night some dream of ill my couch attends, No weary day without itsomen ends; My wheaten crown drops ever from my brows, A sanguine stream from my full bosom flows; Tears bathe my cheeks, and will not be supprest; My hands unbidden beat my wondering breast. I sound the pipe—it breathes a funeral moan; I strike the timbrel—grief is in its tone. Ah me! I fear these auguries are true, And I my long delays am doomed to rue!"
 * "Discard thy terrors," Cybele replies,

"Nor deem that Jove immersed in torpor lies: Around thy charge his guardian lightnings burn; Yet go, and soon with tranquil mind return."
 * She hears, and leaves the temple—but her soul

Finds the swift chariot's wheels too slowly roll: With needless blows she speeds her dragons' flight, And Sicily would reach, e'er Ida fades from sight. Her fears all hope destroy: so chafes the bird, Whose nest the ash's pendent branches gird: Food for her young to seek compell'd to roam, She doubts and wonders what may chance at home: The blast may dash her fragile dwelling down— Some snake invade it, or some prying clown.