What herbs, what plants, did not my nurse produce, To make abortion by their powerful juice! What medicines tried we not, to thee unknown! Our first crime common; this was mine alone. But the strong child, secure in his dark cell, With nature's vigour did our arts repel, And now the pale faced empress of the night Nine times had filled her orb with borrowed light; Not knowing 'twas my labour, I complain Of sudden shootings, and of grinding pain; My throes came thicker, and my cries increased, Which with her hand the conscious nurse suppressed. To that unhappy fortune was I come, Pain urged my clamours, but fear kept me dumb. With inward struggling I restrained my cries, And drunk the tears that trickled from my eyes. Death was in sight, Lucina gave no aid, And even my dying had my guilt betrayed. Thou cam'st, and in thy countenance sat despair; Rent were thy garments all, and torn thy hair; Yet feigning comfort, which thou couldst not give, Prest in thy arms, and whispering me to live; For both our sakes, saidst thou, preserve thy life; Live, my dear sister, and my dearer wife. Raised by that name, with my last pangs I strove; Such power have words, when spoke by those we love. The babe, as if he heard what thou hadst sworn, With hasty joy sprung forward to be born. What helps it to have weathered out one storm! Fear of our father does another form. High in his hall, rocked in a chair of state, The king with his tempestuous council sate; Through this large room our only passage lay, By which we could the new-born babe convey. Swathed in her lap, the bold nurse bore him out, With olive branches covered round about; And, muttering prayers, as holy rites she meant, Through the divided crowd unquestioned went. Just at the door the unhappy infant cried; The grandsire heard him, and the theft he spied. Swift as a whirlwind to the nurse he flies, And deafs his stormy subjects with his cries. With one fierce puff he blows the leaves away; Exposed the self-discovered infant lay. The noise reached me, and my presaging mind Too soon its own approaching woes divined. Not ships at sea with winds are shaken more, Nor seas themselves, when angry tempests roar, Than I, when my loud father's voice I hear; The bed beneath me trembled with my fear. He rushed upon me, and divulged my stain; Scarce from my murder could his hands refrain. I only answered him with silent tears; They flowed; my tongue was frozen up with fears. His little grandchild he commands away, To mountain wolves and every bird of prey. The babe cried out, as if he understood, And begged his pardon with what voice he could. By what expressions can my grief be shown? Yet you may guess my anguish by your own, To see my bowels, and, what yet was worse,