Whose fiery front shall fill men's minds with dread. Run spindles, run, draw out the fateful thread. "With him no hero ever shall compare When Phrygia's plains with Trojan gore run red, Run spindles, run, draw out the fateful thread. "Mothers who mourn their sons his deeds shall own, Run spindles, run, draw out the fateful thread. "As 'neath a burning sun the reaper mows The whitening crops close-set in standing rows, Thus shall he pile the plain with Trojan dead. Run spindles, run, draw out the fateful thread. "Scamander's waves his courage fierce shall show, Run spindles, run, draw out the fateful thread. "Last witness to his worth, that virgin fair (16) Whose snowy limbs the tomb heaped high in air Shall on its lofty rounded summit bear, Shall fall a sacrifice by fate most dread. Run spindles, run, draw out the fateful thread. "For when the wearied Greeks by fortune's aid Headless she falls, meekly she yields her life, Run spindles, run, draw out the fateful thread. "Come join the loves for which ye long have sighed, Let mortal lover take immortal bride, The goddess share the eager husband's bed. Run spindles, run, draw out the fateful thread. "Soon shall the nurse essay in vain to bind (17) The string which erst the maid's fair neck confined, The fruit of joys which Hymen's might hath sped. Run spindles, run, draw out the fateful thread. "Nor shall the mother fear lest mutual hate Divide the matron from her loving mate, Nor shall she failure of fair offspring dread. Thus the weird sisters Peleus' happy fate When sons forgot to mourn their parents dead, When for his child's swift fate the father sighed, (20) CARMEN LXV.-TO HORTALUS. Although deep care and wearing woe My Hortalus, nor can I show The Muses' sweet fruit ever In verse, so mighty is the sea Of sorrow which hath whelmed me, Of Lethe, with slow-streaming wave 'Neath the Rhætean shore he lies, T For ever vanished from our eyes By Troy's most fatal town. Ah brother! shall I never see Thy face again, more loved by me Than life or all I own; Shall I again those accents dear Thy deeds recounting never hear? No, thou art gone! but through my days I ne'er will cease to love, Thy mournful fate will all my lays With grief for ever move, As the bird's song 'mid leafy gloom Her lasting woe doth prove; But though such grief o'ermasters me, These lines, my friend, I'll send to thee. Lest thou should'st think that from my mind Thy words in my distress Had slipped, as love's sweet gift confined Within a maiden's dress Slips, when she starts upon her feet, Unhappy, thoughtless girl, to greet Her mother's fond caress, O'er her face spreads the conscious blush |