Page:Virgil - The Georgics, Thomas Nevile, 1767.djvu/128

 116 Again I go; Fate calls me from the skies,

And sleep eternal seals my swimming eyes:

Adieu! with deepest darkness cover'd o'er

I stretch my feeble hands, thy wife, alas! no more.

These words scarce finish'd, sudden from his view,

Like smoke with thin air mixt, she diverse flew;

No more to meet her Orpheus, who essay'd

Oft to reply, and catch her fleeting shade.

What, what remain'd? Hell's ferry-man deny'd

A second passage o'er th' opponent tide.

His wife twice lost, ah! whither shall he rove?

What plaint, what strain, the Ghosts, the Gods shall move?

Plac'd in the Stygian bark she shivering sail'd:

He, as Fame tells, sev'n months successive wail'd,

By Strymon's unfrequented wave, his woes,

Where a bleak rock's aerial mansion rose;

In chilly caves he mus'd, and by his song

Sooth'd the fierce beasts, and drew the trees along.

So Philomela in the poplar bow'r

Laments her offspring, lost in luckless hour,

Which some rude Rustic, callow as they lay,

From their warm nest observant snatcht away:

Percht on a bough, all night she weeps, her strains

Renews, and with sad wailings fills the plains.

No