Lament XIV

Where are those gates through which so long ago     Orpheus descended to the realms below     To seek his lost one? Little daughter, I     Would find that path and pass that ford whereby     The grim-faced boatman ferries pallid shades     And drives them forth to joyless cypress glades.     But do thou not desert me, lovely lute!     Be thou the furtherance of my mournful suit     Before dread Pluto, till he shall give ear     To our complaints and render up my dear.     To his dim dwelling all men must repair,     And so must she, her father's joy and heir;     But let him grant the fruit now scarce in flower     To fill and ripen till the harvest hour!     Yet if that god doth bear a heart within     So hard that one in grief can nothing win,     What can I but renounce this upper air     And lose my soul, but also lose my care.