To groan in death was shame In such a presence.

What power had all the ills Possessed upon him?
In another's breast He conquers misery, teaching by his mien That pain is powerless.
Hardly aid at length Did Fortune, wearied of their perils, grant.
Alone unharmed of all who till the earth, By deadly serpents, dwells the Psyllian race.
Potent as herbs their song; safe is their blood, Nor gives admission to the poison germ E'en when the chant has ceased.

Their home itself Placed in such venomous tract and serpent-thronged Gained them this vantage, and a truce with death, Else could they not have lived.

Such is their trust In purity of blood, that newly born Each babe they prove by test of deadly asp For foreign lineage.

So the bird of Jove Turns his new fledglings to the rising sun And such as gaze upon the beams of day With eves unwavering, for the use of heaven He rears; but such as blink at Phoebus' rays Casts from the nest.