The Theological Tractates and The Consolation of Philosophy · Boethius
XII.
Happy is he that can behold The well-spring whence all good doth rise, Happy is he that can unfold The bands with which the earth him ties. The Thracian poet whose sweet song Performed his wife's sad obsequies, And forced the woods to run along When he his mournful tunes did play, Whose powerful music was so strong That it could make the rivers stay; The fearful hinds not daunted were, But with the lions took their way, Nor did the hare behold with fear The dog whom these sweet notes appease. When force of grief drew yet more near, And on his heart did burning seize, Nor tunes which all in quiet bound Could any jot their master ease, The gods above too hard he found, And Pluto's palace visiting. He mixed sweet verses with the sound Of his loud harp's delightful string, All that he drank with thirsty draught From his high mother's chiefest spring, All that his restless grief him taught, And love which gives grief double aid, With this even hell itself was caught, Whither he went, and pardon prayed For his dear spouse (unheard request). The three-head porter was dismayed, Ravished with his unwonted guest, The Furies, which in tortures keep The guilty souls with pains opprest, Moved with his song began to weep.
Ixion's wheel now standing still Turns not his head with motions steep. Though Tantalus might drink at will, To quench his thirst he would forbear. The vulture full with music shrill Doth not poor Tityus' liver tear. 'We by his verses conquered are,' Saith the great King whom spirits fear. 'Let us not then from him debar His wife whom he with songs doth gain. Yet lest our gift should stretch too far, We will it with this law restrain, That when from hell he takes his flight, He shall from looking back refrain.' Who can for lovers laws indite? Love hath no law but her own will. Orpheus, seeing on the verge of night Eurydice, doth lose and kill Her and himself with foolish love. But you this feigned tale fulfil, Who think unto the day above To bring with speed your darksome mind. For if, your eye conquered, you move Backward to Pluto left behind, All the rich prey which thence you took, You lose while back to hell you look."
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.