Procne

More sharply gnaws the hidden care which we with others may not share.

And thou, though strong of soul, and nerd to grief, canst naught in thine own weeping find relief? Though Philomel for Itys sing her sad sweet notes in wakening spring, though Procne with insistent din bewail her husband's hidden sin, naught these, with all their passionate lament, can voice the sorrows in thy bosom pent.

Let Cycnus raise his dying song, and its soft plaintive strains prolong; let Palcyon mourn her Caïus brave, aflutter o'er the tossing wave; let priests of tower-crowned Cybele their tears for Attis share with thee:—still, what are tears in no such measure flow, for suffering like these no limits know? [Cassandra lays aside her fillets] But why dost lay aside the sacred woe? Most by the wretched should the gods be feared.

But ills like mine o'erleap the bounds of fear.