eBooks Base 2000

Far may the hour, we pray, be hence,
When we, O thou of little sense,
Our truthful father's choice refuse,
And for ourselves our husbands choose.
Our honored sire our lord we deem,
He is to us a God supreme--
And they to whom his high decree
May give us shall our husbands be."
He heard the answer they returned,
And mighty rage within him burned.
On each fair maid a blast he sent--
Each stately form he bowed and bent.
Bent double by the Wind-God's ire
They sought the palace of their sire,
There fell upon the ground with sighs,
While tears and shame were in their eyes.
The King himself, with, troubled brow,
Saw his dear girls so fair but now,
A mournful sight all bent and bowed--
And grieving, thus he cried aloud:--
"What fate is this, and what the cause?
What wretch has scorned all heavenly laws?
Who thus your forms could curve and break?
You struggle, but no answer make."
They heard the speech of that wise king
Of their misfortune questioning.


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