From the inveterate stroke of Juno's curse;

On whom even mother earth closed all her portals,

Refusing shelter in her cooing bowers,

Or rest upon her velvet couch of flowers,

To the most weary of all weary mortals.

Within whose earth-encumbered form,

Like two fair stars entwined in storm,

Or wings astir within the worm,

Feeling out for light and air,

Struggled that celestial pair,

Phœbus of unerring bow,

And chaste Dian fair as snow.

[50]

Ah, who will harbour her? Ah, who will save

The fugitive from pangs that rack and tear;

Who, finding rest nor refuge anywhere,

Seems doomed to be her unborn offspring's grave;

The seed of Jove, murdered before their birth—

Did not the sea, more merciful than earth,

Bid Delos stand—that wandering isle of Ocean—

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