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CONSTANTINE AND ARETE. |
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O mother, thou with thy nine sons, and with one
only daughter, Thine only daughter, well beloved, the dearest of thy
children, For twelve years thou didst keep the maid, the sun
did not behold her, Whom in the darkness thou didst bathe, in secret braid
her tresses. And by the starlight and the dawn, didst wind her
curling ringlets, Nor knew the neighborhood that thou didst have so
fair a daughter,— When came to thee from Babylon a woer's soft
entreaty: Eight of the brothers yielded not, but Constantine
consented. " O mother give thine Arete, bestow her on the
stranger, That I may have her solace dear when far away I
wander." " Though thou art wise, my Constantine, thou hast
unwisely spoken: Be woe my lot or be it joy, who will restore my
daughter?" |
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