Page:Tragedies of Seneca (1907) Miller.djvu/213

Rh Of late she blushed a fiery red, And yet no staining cloud obscured Her shining disk. But we, in fear For her troubled face, clashed cymbals loud, Deeming her harried by the charms Of Thessaly. But for thee alone Was all her toil; thou wast the cause Of her long delay; for, seeing thee, The night's fair goddess checked her course. If only winter's blasts would beat Less fiercely on that face of thine; If less it felt the sun's hot rays, More bright than Parian marble's gleam Would it appear. How beautiful The manly sternness in thy face, Thy brow's dark frowning majesty! Compare with Phoebus' that fair neck. His hair o'er his shoulders flowing free, Unbound by fillet, ornaments And shelters him. A shaggy brow Becomes thee best; thee, shorter locks, In tossing disarray. 'Tis thine The rough and warlike gods to meet In strife, and by thy mighty strength To overcome them. Even now, The muscles of a Hercules Thy youthful arms can match. Thy breast Is broader than the breast of Mars. If on a horny-footed steed Thou'rt pleased to mount, not Castor's self More easily could hold in check The Spartan Cyllarus. Take thong in hand; with all thy strength Discharge the javelin: not so far, Though they be trained to hurl the dart, Will Cretans send the slender reed. Or if it please thee into air, In Parthian style, to shoot thy darts, None will descend without its bird,