44
Arrived, the Goddess views her desert hall,
The doors thrown backward to the gloomy wall,
And grief and silence reigning over all:
Worse than her worst forebodings! wild she tears
Her robe, her hair, her crown of golden ears:
Her tears are choked, her voice, her breath is still;
Deep in her bones she feels the marrow thrill:
And wanders on, with weak unsteady gait,
Through vacant courts, and chambers desolate;
Till meets her eyes at length the straggling weft,
Which there the Maiden uncompleted left;
Whilst a bold spider's sacrilegious line
Fills the void spaces of that work divine.
But still she moans not, still no tears are shed;
In mute complaint she kisses every thread:
The ball of wool, the needle, or the toy,
The virgin's graver task, or playful joy,
Whatever her hands have touch'd, she fondly grasps,
And, as herself it were, to her sad bosom clasps:
Explores with eager eyes her bower's retreat,
Her couch of slumber, and her daily seat.
So stands the shepherd o'er his empty fold,
His sheep the prey of Lybian lions bold,
Or driven to fill some sturdy robber's hold;
