Classic Poem

A CHILD more sweet-voiced than a swan full-grown,
Softer than all Galaesus' lamb's-wool down,
More dainty than the shells from Lucrine meres.
More fair than new-cut ivory appears,
Or Red Sea stones, or snow, or lilies white,
Whose locks than Baetic fleeces shine more bright
And could the dormouse and Rhine's knots surpass,
Whose breath than Paestan roses sweeter was,
Or Attic honey, or an amber ball
Snatched from a maiden's hand and warm withal,
Compared with whom a peacock's hues were pale.
Squirrels seemed clumsy, and a phoenix stale —
My little love-bird, my Erotion,
Lies in the pyre still warm: her life is done;
Six winters had not passed above her head
When fate relentless struck my playmate dead.

And yet friend Paetus bids me not to grieve —
" My wife," he cries, " is buried, but I live.
And she was rich and proud, of lineage brave.
Why weep so sorely for a little slave?"
And therewithal, to show his heartfelt pain.
He beats his breast and tears his hair again.
How brave is Paetus. He endures his life:
And yet he's got a fortune from his wife.