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Updated: May 3, 2025
O Hesperus, thou bringest all good things Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, The welcome stall to the o'er-laboured steer; Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, Are gathered round us by thy look of rest; Thou bring'st the child too to its mother's breast.
I myself might scarcely leap, with the last spring of o'er-laboured legs, from the engulfing grave of slime. I could only gaze and pant; for my strength was no more than an infant's, from the fury and the horror. Scarcely could I turn away, while, joint by joint, he sank from sight.
I myself might scarcely leap, with the last spring of o'er-laboured legs, from the engulfing grave of slime. I could only gaze and pant; for my strength was no more than an infant's, from the fury and the horror. Scarcely could I turn away, while, joint by joint, he sank from sight.
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