Smitten by him, from towering hopes degraded, Mortals lie low and still Tireless and effortless, works forth its will The arm divine! God from His holy seat, in calm of unarmed power, Brings forth the deed, at its appointed hour! Let Him look down on mortal wantonness! Lo! how the youthful stock of Belus’ line Craves for me, uncontrolled— With greed and madness bold— Urged on by passion’s sunless stress— And, cheated, learns too late the prey has ’scaped their hold! Ah, listen, listen to my grievous tale, My sorrow’s words, my shrill and tearful cries! Ah woe, ah woe! Loud with lament the accents use, And from my living lips my own sad dirges flow! O Apian land of hill and dale, Thou kennest yet, O land, this faltered foreign wail— Have mercy, hear my prayer! Lo, how again, again, I rend and tear My woven raiment, and from off my hair Cast the Sidonian veil! Ah, but if fortune smile, if death be driven away, Vowed rites, with eager haste, we to the gods will pay! Alas, alas again! O wither drift the waves? and who shall loose the pain? O Apian land of hill and dale, Thou kennest yet, O land, this faltered foreign wail! Have mercy, hear my prayer! Lo, how again, again, I rend and tear My woven raiment, and from off my hair Cast the Sidonian veil! The wafting oar, the bark with woven sail, From which the sea foamed back, Sped me, unharmed of storms, along the breeze’s track— Be it unblamed of me! But ah, the end, the end of my emprise! May He, the Father, with all-seeing eyes, Grant me that end to see! Grant that henceforth unstained as heretofore I may escape the forced embrace Of those proud children of the race That sacred Io bore. And thou, O maiden-goddess chaste and pure— Queen of the inner fane,— Look of thy grace on me, O Artemis, Thy willing suppliant—thine, thine it is, Who from the lustful onslaught fled secure, To grant that I too without stain The shelter of thy purity may gain! Grant that henceforth unstained as heretofore I may escape the forced embrace Of those proud children of the race That sacred Io bore! Yet if this may not be, We, the dark race sun-smitten, we Will speed with suppliant wands To Zeus who rules below, with hospitable hands Who welcomes all the dead from all the lands: Yea by our own hands strangled, we will go, Spurned by Olympian gods, unto the gods below!