Epistulae

may easily guess the state of my mind by your own,) to hear my bowels doomed in my presence a prey to mountain-wolves, and the savage beasts of the woods. My father left me: then was I at liberty to beat my breast, and wound my checks with my nails. Meantime a messenger came from my father, his countenance sad, and his words full of cruelty. Æolus sends thee this sword (he then gave the sword into my hand), and says, that the sense of thy own demerits will teach thee what it means. I know what it means; and will boldly urge the piercing steel: my father's gift shall be treasured in my breast. Are these the gifts with which a father graces my nuptials? Is this the dower with which you enrich your daughter? Deluded Hymenæus, remove far hence the nuptial torch, and fly with hurry and trepidation from this detested place. Let the hideous Furies bring hither their internal brands, that, kindled up by them, my funeral pile may blaze. Do you, my sisters, wed, blessed with more propitious fate; but, warned, be ever mindful of my crime. What has my infant son, so

lately born, committed? What could one scarcely brought forth do to offend his grandfather? If it were possible for him to have deserved so hard a fate, let him be thought to have deserved it. Alas, unhappy balse, you suffer for the guilt to your mother! O my darling son, to be your mother's grief, and the prey of wild beasts! alas! doomed to be destroyed on the very day of your birth; ill-fated babe, the mournful pledge of our unhappy loves; this was your first day of life, this also must be your last! I was not allowed to shed over you a mother's tears, or offer upon your sepulchre my shora hair. I did not hang over thy lifeless frame, or snatch from thy mouth the cold kisses. My bowels, alas! are made a prey to savage beasts. But I will soon follow by this wound thy infant shade: not long a mother, nor long shall I be called childless. But thou, in vain, alas! thy wretched sister's hope, fail not to gather up the scattered members of thy son; bear them to his fond mother's grave, and unite them with her in the social tomb: let the same urn, though small, contain us

both. Live ever mindful of your Canace, and shed some tears over my wound: nor fear to touch the breathless body of one whom you loved. Fulfil these last commands of thy hapless sister; and I will execute the cruel mandates of my unrelenting sire.