Page:Tragedies of Seneca (1907) Miller.djvu/196

178 Mine be the task to approach the savage youth, And bend his will relentless to our own.

Chorus: Thou goddess, child of the foaming sea, Thou mother of love, how fierce are the flames, And how sharp are the darts of thy petulant boy; How deadly of aim his bow. Deep to the heart the poison sinks When the veins are imbued with his hidden flame; No gaping wound upon the breast Does his arrow leave; but far within It burns with consuming fire. No peace or rest does he give; world wide Are his flying weapons sown abroad: The shores that see the rising sun, And the land that lies at the goal of the west; The south where raging Cancer glows, And the land of the cold Arcadian Bear With its ever-wandering tribes—all know And have felt the fires of love. The hot blood of youth he rouses to madness, The smouldering embers of age he rekindles, And even the innocent breasts of maids Are stirred by passion unknown. He bids the immortals desert the skies And dwell on the earth in forms assumed. For love, Apollo kept the herds Of Thessaly's king, and, his lyre unused, He called to his bulls on the gentle pipe. How oft has Jove himself put on The lower forms of life, who rules The sky and the clouds. Now a bird he seems, With white wings hovering, with voice More sweet than the song of the dying swan; Now with lowering front, as a wanton bull, He offers his back to the sport of maids; And soon through his brother's waves he floats, With his hoofs like sturdy oars, and his breast Stoutly opposing the waves, in fear