The Furies sink upon their iron beds, And snakes uncurl'd hang listening round their heads. By the streams that ever flow, By the fragrant winds that blow O'er th' Elysian flowers; By those happy souls who dwell By the heroes' armèd shades, Glittering through the gloomy glades; Oh, take the husband, or return the wife! He sung, and hell consented To hear the poet's prayer: And gave him back the fair. Thus song could prevail O'er death and o'er hell, A conquest how hard and how glorious! Yet music and love were victorious. |