_Thyestes_ [_sits alone at the banquet table, half overcome with wine; he tries to sing and be gay, but in spite of this, some vague premonition of evil weighs upon his spirit_]: O heart, long dulled with wretchedness, 920 Put by at last thine anxious cares. Oh, now let grief and fear depart; Let haunting hunger flee away, The grim companion of the lot Of trembling exiles; and disgrace, A heavy load for mourning souls. 925 More boots it from what height thou fall'st, Than to what depth. How noble is't, When fallen from the pinnacle, With dauntless step and firm, to tread The lowly plain; and noble too, Though by a mass of cares o'erwhelmed, To bolster up the shattered throne 930 With neck unbending; and with soul Heroic, undismayed by ills, To stand erect beneath the weight Of ruined fortunes. But away, Ye gloomy clouds of fate; ye marks Of former misery, depart. 935 Thy happy fortune greet with face Of joy, and utterly forget The old Thyestes. But alas! This fault is linked with wretchedness, That never can the woeful soul Accept returned prosperity. Though kindly fortune smile again, 940 He who has suffered finds it hard To give himself to joy. But why Dost thou restrain me? Why forbid To celebrate this festal day? Why wouldst thou have me weep, O grief, For no cause rising? Why with flowers, 945 Dost thou forbid to wreathe my hair? It does, it does forbid! For see, Upon my head the flowers of spring Have withered; and my festal locks, Though dripping with the precious nard, Stand up in sudden dread; my cheeks, That have no cause to weep, are wet 950 With tears; and in the midst of speech I groan aloud. No doubt 'tis true, That grief, well trained in weeping, loves To melt away in tears; and oft The wretched feel a strong desire To weep their fill. E'en so I long To cry aloud my wretchedness, To rend these gorgeous Tyrian robes, 955 And shriek my misery to heaven. My mind gives intimation dark Of coming grief, its own distress Foreboding. So the sailor fears The raging tempest's near approach, When tranquil waters heave and swell, 960 Without a breath of wind. Thou fool, What grief, what rising storm of fate Dost thou imagine nigh? Nay, nay, Believe thy brother; for thy fear-- 'Tis groundless, whatsoe'er it be, Or thou dost fear too late. Ah me, I would not be unhappy now; 965 But in my soul dim terror stalks, Nor can my eyes withhold their tears; And all for naught. What can it be? Am I possessed by grief or fear? Or can this some great rapture be,