Bewailing her ungentle sex,And thee, Alcaeus, louder farChanting thy tale of woful wrecks,Of woful exile, woful war!In sacred awe the silent deadAttend on each: but when the songOf combat tells and tyrants fled,Keen ears, press'd shoulders, closer throng.What marvel, when at those sweet airsThe hundred-headed beast spell-boundEach black ear droops, and Furies' hairsUncoil their serpents at the sound?Prometheus too and Pelops' sireIn listening lose the sense of woe;Orion hearkens to the lyre,And lets the lynx and lion go.Ah, Postumus! they fleet away,Our years, nor piety one hourCan win from wrinkles and decay,And Death's indomitable power;