University of Virginia Library

Thou art Tiresias, my hapless son,
Tho' sad indeed, yet more than others blessed.
Thy guides for ever gone from this dark life
Wherein we stumble, tho' our sight be keen;
A need the poorest creeping things enjoy,
And Gods themselves cannot restore when lost.
Great Pallas, wise Athena heard my prayer,
And granted that which makes thee more than man:
Yea, made thee as the Gods with power to see
Determined courses rule far times to come;
But made thee not as Gods with power to aid
The due fulfilment of Their wills divine.
Tho' thus denied; and men seem unto thee
As fevered victims in their chase for power;
Yet happily their tumult canst thou shun
For blossoming sweets that breathe around thine home,
Within whose shadow, smiling, dwells content.
Thy fateful glimpse of Wisdom left thee dazed
And listless from thy terrible delight:
Regardful, I discerned thine eyes were clear,
Without a wound or scar to mark their scath,
But taking shapes as mirrors void of life.
Ah, could I brook thee mine, but one of those
Who eat and sleep, and only sleep and eat!
Faith fired the hope my Goddess might incline
To hear the prayer of suffering Chariclo;
And, strong in resolution, timidly
Her temple steps ascending, bent I down
Before Athena's statue, where I wept.
The lifelong issue or of joy or woe,
Awe weighted me to silence while I kissed
The ground made sacred by Her sandalled feet.
I strove to make each sentence close and true
To urge my supplication piercingly,
Lest its defect should cause thy suit to fail
And leave thee hapless.