Page:Statius (Mozley 1928) v1.djvu/371

into verse, and contrive discordant strains, and words that are but sobs; the power of my lyre is awake, its spirit brooks not silence. But no wonted bays are on my head, no chaplet’s glory on my brow. Behold, the yew-sprays wither on my hair, and the lamentable cypress-leaves exclude the cheerful ivy, nor do I strike the chords with quill of ivory, but with errant fingers tear distractedly my uncertain harp. I delight, ay, alas! delight to pour forth hateful strains, and to lay bare my wretched grief in random utterance. Is such my desert? Must the gods behold me thus with the garb and music of woe? Must Thebes and young Achilles^[1] be put to shame? Will calm utterance flow nevermore from my lips? Yet I am he who was able—how many a time!—to soothe by appeasing words the pain of mother and of sire, and the sorrow of bereavement; I, the gentle consoler of the afflicted, whose voice was heard in the hour of untimely death by spirits departing, I now am at a loss, and seek healing hands and remedies, ay, the most powerful, for my wounds. Now is the time, my friends, whose streaming eyes and pierced breasts I stanched; bring me succour, pay your debt of frenzied gratitude. Doubtless when I in sad strains <bewailed> your losses <one among you spake> rebuking: “Thou who dost grieve for others’ loss, preserve thy ill-omened tears, and keep thy melancholy song.” ’Twas true: exhausted are my powers, I have no store of speech, my mind can find nought to match so great a blow; too feeble is all my music,