Nine spirits are we, wandering many years,
Longing to know; and many lands
O'ertravelled, one day were surprised
By a sore accident,
To which if you attend,
You'll say, oh worthy, oh unhappy lovers!
An impious Circe, who presumes to boast
Of having for her sire this glorious sun,
Welcomed us after many wanderings:
Opened a certain urn,
With water sprinkled us,
And to the sprinkling added an enchantment.
Waiting the finish of this work of hers
We all were quiet, mute, attent,
Until she said, "Oh ye unhappy ones,
Blind be ye all,
Gather that fruit
Those get who fix their thoughts on things above."
Daughter and Mother of horror and darkness and woe
They cried, who sudden were struck blind,
It pleased you then, so proud and harsh,
To treat these wretched lovers,
Who put themselves before you,
Ready to consecrate to you their hearts.
But when the sudden fury somewhat stayed,
Which this new case had brought on them,
Each one within himself withdrew,
While rage to grief gave place;
To her they turned for pity,
With chosen words companioning their tears.
Now if it please thee, gracious sorceress,
If zeal for glory chance to move thy heart,
Or milk of kindness soften it,
Be merciful to us,
And with thy magic herbs,
Heal up the wound imprinted on our hearts.
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