Page:Tragedies of Seneca (1907) Miller.djvu/411

Rh Thou art the goddess of peace, And the issues of war are thine; And thine are the laurels of victory twined On the brow of our king Agamemnon. To thee the boxwood flute resounds In solemn festival; To thee the maidens strike the harp In sweetest song; To thee the votive torch is tossed; The gleaming heifer, all unmarred By the plow's rough touch Falls at thy shrine. And thou, child of the Thunderer, Pallas illustrious, hear; Before whose might the Dardanian walls Have trembled and fallen to dust. Thee maidens and matrons in chorus united Exalt and adore; at thy approach Thy temple doors swing open wide, While the welcoming throng, with garlands bedecked, Rejoice at thy coming; And feeble, tottering elders come To pay their vows of thanks and praise, And pour their offerings of wine With trembling hands. And to thee with mindful lips we pray, Bright Trivia, Lucina called. Thy native Delos didst thou bid Stand fast upon the sea, and float No more, the wandering mock of winds. And now, with firmly fixed root, It stands secure, defies the gale, And, wont of old to follow ships, Now gives them anchorage. Proud Niobe thy vengeance felt Who thy divinity defied. Now, high on lonely Sipylus, She sits and weeps in stony grief; Though to insensate marble turned,