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How proud was I, when suitors round me pressed,
And my one child, of all that breathe the best,
Advanced my name above the fruitfullest!
My pride—my joy—my first and last delight!
My all-sufficient in thy Mother's sight!
Where thou didst bloom, I bore my godhead high,
Nor yielded Juno place, when thou wast by!
Now vile, exposed to each contemptuous gibe—
So wills thy Sire—yet why to him ascribe
These tears and griefs? 'tis I have made thee moan,
Left to thy bitterest foes, unguarded, and alone.
I, who secure—suspecting nought of wrong—
Mid clash of joyous arms, and mystic song,
The Phrygian lions yoked, while thou wast dragged along.
Accept the penal wounds that mar my face,
That blood- stain'd furrows on my bosom trace,
And stamp the heartless mother with disgrace.
In what far region shall I seek thee out?
What friendly tongue shall tell thy whereabout?
What tracks shall guide me in my weary way?
What car, what robber, bore thee hence a prey?
Is earth his dwelling, or the deep below?
Where do his flying wheels their traces show?
With chance-directed steps I go, I go—
