O Thou, said I, on whom my Hopes depend,
Do not this Work to Servants Care commend:
If Thou thyself with me refuse to go,
Here, to the list'ning Vines, I'll vent my Woe;
Still prostrate lie, lamenting for my Son,
Till ev'ry Hill prove vocal to my Moan.
More had I said, but Grief the Words supprest;
Yet Sighs, and silent Tears, explain'd the rest.
At length he from his verdant Seat arose,
And hastily adown the Mountain goes:
To  we, with Speed, our Way pursue;
The City soon appears within our View;
And the obedient Servant, at the Gate,
Returning sad, without Success, we met:
The beauteous Child by Death still vanquish'd lay;
Still Death insulted o'er the beauteous Prey;
Till to the House the sacred Seer was come,
And, with supernal Pow'r, approach'd the Room.