Ut domus excubiis incustodita remotis et resupinati neglecto cardine postes flebilis et tacitae species adparuit aulae, non expectato respectu cladis amictus conscidit et fractas cum crine avellit aristas. 150 haeserunt lacrimae; nec vox aut spiritus oris redditur, atque imis vibrat tremor ossa medullis; succidui titubant gressus; foribusque reclusis, dum vacuas sedes et desolata pererrat atria, semirutas confuso stamine telas 155 atque interceptas agnoscit pectinis artes. divinus perit ille labor, spatiumque relictum audax sacrilego supplebat aranea textu. Nec deflet plangitve malum; tantum oscula telae figit et abrumpit mutas in fila querellas; 160 attritosque manu radios proiectaque pensa cunctaque virgineo sparsa oblectamina ludo ceu natam pressat gremio; castumque cubile desertosque toros et, sicubi sederat olim, perlegit: attonitus stabulo ceu pastor inani, 165 cui pecus aut rabies Poenorum inopina leonum aut populatrices infestavere catervae; serus at ille redit vastataque pascua lustrans non responsuros ciet imploratque iuvencos. Atque ibi secreta tectorum in parte iacentem 170 conspicit Electram, natae quae sedula nutrix Oceani priscas inter notissima Nymphas. par Cereri pietas; haec post cunabula dulci ferre sinu summoque Iovi deducere parvam sueverat et genibus ludentem aptare paternis. 175 * * * * * Page 357 When she saw the gate-keepers fled, the house unguarded, the rusted hinges, the overthrown doorposts, and the miserable state of the silent halls, pausing not to look again at the disaster, she rent her garment and tore away the shattered corn-ears along with her hair. She could not weep nor speak nor breathe and a trembling shook the very marrow of her bones; her faltering steps tottered. She flung open the doors and wandering through the empty rooms and deserted halls, recognized the half-ruined warp with its disordered threads and the work of the loom broken off. The goddess’ labours had come to naught, and what remained to be done, that the bold spider was finishing with her sacrilegious web. She weeps not nor bewails the ill; only kisses the loom and stifles her dumb complaints amid the threads, clasping to her bosom, as though it had been her child, the spindles her child’s hand had touched, the wool she had cast aside, and all the toys scattered in maiden sport. She scans the virgin bed, the deserted couch, and the chair where Proserpine had sat: even as a herd, whose drove the unexpected fury of an African lion or bands of marauding beasts have attacked, gazes in amaze at the vacant stall, and, too late returned, wanders through the emptied pastures, sadly calling to the unreplying steers.