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Your converse grave when dared she to molest—
Or mar your pleasures—an unbidden guest?
Hid in Trinacria's isle, and far away,
On none intruding, harming none, she lay:
Seclusion vain—and life of useless ease—
That might not envy's bitter spite appease!"
She spake: they, mindful of their Sire's behest,
Their thoughts by weeping—not by words—express'd;
Or knowledge of the fatal chance denied:
She, much perplex'd, abating of her pride,
Her warmth repress'd, and—"O, forgive me," cried,
"If, urged too far, a mother's fond desire
Her speech inflamed with unbecoming fire.
A suppliant at your knees I lay me low;
O give the wretched but her doom to know:
The worst, when known, admits of some relief;
To Fate, not malice, let me owe my grief.
Indulge a parent in one only look:
I redemand not aught the robber took:
His act I sanction, whosoe'er he be:
His spoil be his, without a fear of me.
But if, by compact bound, my suit you spurn,
Of thee, Latona, I the truth may learn,
