_Strophe_
In vain--our pious vows are vain-- {111}
Make we the flying sail our care,
The light bark bounding o'er the main;
To what new realm shall we repair?
To Lycia's hallow'd strand?
Or where in solitary state,
Mid thirsty deserts wild and wide
That close him round on every side,
Prophetic Ammon holds his awful seat?
What charm, what potent hand
Shall save her from the realms beneath?
He comes, the ruthless tyrant Death:
I have no priest, no altar more,
Whose aid I may implore!
_Antistrophe_
O that the Son of Phoebus now {121}
Lived to behold th' ethereal light!
Then might she leave the seats below,
Where Pluto reigns in cheerless night!
The Sage's potent art,
Till thund'ring Jove's avenging pow'r
Hurl'd his red Thunders at his breast,
Could, from the yawning gulf releast,
To the sweet light of life the dead restore.
Who now shall aid impart?
To ev'ry god, at ev'ry shrine,
The king hath paid the rites divine:
But vain his vows, his pious care;
And ours is dark despair!