P A R T  I I I  
 
LONG days and nights succeeded in despair. 
Each noon beheld his doom—too proud for 
prayer, 
And scorning Aphrodite’s help—he strayed 
Through swamps and weary bogs, nor yet be-
trayed 
His anguished countenance to mortal men. 
There was so keen an hour of sorrow, when 
He had destroyed himself ;  but Heaven’s hand, 
Stretched out in vengeance, held him back.  The 
land, 
Where rest is made eternal, slipped his clutch ; 
He wandered through the world and might not 
touch 
The sceptre of King Death.  In vain he sought 
Those fierce embraces, nor availed him aught 
To numb the aching of his breast.  The maid 
He loved, now freed from doom, no longer 
prayed