8
Or think'st thou, brother, that inert we lie,
Because no bolts we scatter through the sky,
No thunder ours, weak ears to terrify?
Say, is it not enough that unto me
Awarded in the third and last degree
The lot should fall, devoid of cheerful light,
The shapeless regions of eternal night?
While thee their Lord the zodiac's glories own,
And stars unnumbered burn about thy throne?
But must the genial couch be still denied?
Shall happy Neptune boast his Ocean Bride,
And when—thy thunders o'er—thou sink'st to rest,
Shall Juno clasp thee to her kindred breast?
(I pass thine amorous thefts—Latona's charms—
Great Themis won—and Ceres' yielding arms—)
Thine image wide to spread, proud Sire, be thine,
Begirt with prosperous sons, a race divine!
While, mourning in my desert halls, I bear
Enduring shame, unmitigated care,
No pledge of love, no source of comfort there?
I wake indignant from my sluggish dream;
I swear by Hell's inviolable stream,
By elemental Night—my suit unheard—
By me shall Orcus from its depths be stirr'd,
