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Apollo hid his face, and pind for grief,
And, if the story may deserve belief,
The space of one whole day is faid to run,
From morn to wonted eve, without a sun :
The burning ruins, with a fainter ray,
Supply the sun, and counterfeit a day,
A day, that still did nature's face disclose:
This comfort from the mighty mischief rofe.
But Clymenè, enrag'd with grief, laments,
And, as her grief inspires, her passion vents :
Wild for her son, and frantic in her woes,
With hair dishevel'd, round the world she goes,
To seek where-e'er his body might be cast;
Till, on the borders of the Po, at last
The name infcrib’d on the new tomb appears,
The dear dear name the bathes in flowing tears ;
Hangs o'er the tomb, unable to depart,
And hugs the marble to her throbbing heart.
Her daughters too lament, and sigh, and mourn,
(A fruitless tribute to their brother's urn;)
And beat their naked bosoms, and complain,
And call aloud for Phaeton in vain :
All the long night their mournful watch they keep,
And all the day stand round the tomb and weep.
Four times, revolving, the full moon return'd;
So long the mother and the daughters mourn’d;
When now the eldest, Phaethusa, strove
To rest her weary limbs, but could not move ;
Lampetia would have help'd her, but she found
Herself withheld, and rooted to the ground:
A third in wild affliction, as the grieves,
Would rend her hair, but fills her hand with leaves ;
One sees her thighs transform’d, another views
Her arms shot out, and branching into boughs.
now their legs, and breasts, and bodies, stood
Crusted with bark, and hardening into wood;
But still above were female heads display'd,
And mouths, that call'đ the mother to their aid.
What could, alas ! the weeping mother do?
From this to that with eager haste the flew,
And kiss'd her sprouting daughters as they grew.
She tears the bark that to each body cleaves :
And from the verdant fingers ftrips the leaves :
The blood came trickling, where she tore away
The leaves and bark: the maids were heard to say,
« Forbear, mistaken parent, oh! forbear;
“ A wounded daughter in each tree you tear ;
« Farewel for ever.” Here the bark increas'd,
Clos'd on their faces, and their words suppress’d
The new-made trees in tears of amber run, Which, harden'd into value by the sun, Distil for ever on the streams below : The limpid streams their radiant treasure show, Mix'd in the fand; whence the rich drops convey'd Shine in the dress of the bright Latian maid.
THE TRANSFORMATION OF CYCNUS
INTO A SWAN.
CYCNUS beheld the nymphs transform’d, ally'd To their dead brother, on the mortal side,
In friendship and affection nearer bound;
He left the cities and the realıns he own'd,
Through pathless fields and lonely shores to range,
And woods, made thicker by the sisters' change.
Whilst here, within the dismal gloom, alone,
The melancholy monarch made his moan,
His voice was lefsend, as he try'd to speak,
And issued through a long-extended neck;
His hair transforms to down, his fingers meet
In skinny films, and shape his oary feet;
From both his fides the wings and feathers break;
And from his mouth proceeds a blunred beak :
All Cycnus now into a iwan was turn'd,
Who, still remembering how his kinsman burn'd,
To folitary pools and lakes retires,
And loves the waters as oppos'd to fires.
Mean-while Apollo iu a gloomy shade
(The native lustre of his brows decay’d)
Indulging forrow, sickens at the fight
Of his own sun-fhine, and abhors the light:
The hidden griefs, that in his bosom rife,
Sadden his looks, and overcast his eyes,
As when some dusky orb obstructs his ray,
And fullies, in a dim eclipse, the day.
Now secretly with inward griefs he pin’d,
Now warm resentnients to his griefs he join'd,
And now renounc'd his office to mankind.
E'er since the birth of time, said he, I've borne 66 A long ungrateful toil without return; « Let now some other manage, if he dare, « The fiery feeds, and mount the burning car,
« Or, if none else, let Jove his fortune try,
“ And learn to lay his murdering thunder by ;
“ Then will he own, perhaps, but own too late,
« My son deferv'd not so severe a fate.”
The gods stand round him, as he mourns, and pray
He would resume the conduct of the day,
Nor let the world be lost in endless night :
Jove too himself, descending from his height,
Excuses what had happen'd, and intreats,
Majestically mixing prayers and threats.
Prevail d upon at length, again he took
The harnass'd steeds, that still with horror shook,
And plies them with the lash, and whips them on,
And, as he whips, upbraids them with his son.
THE STORY OF CALISTO.
THE day was settled in its course; and Jove
Walk'd the wide circuit of the heavens above,
To search if any cracks or flaws were made;
But all was safe : the earth he then survey'd,
And cast an eye on every different coast,
but on Arcadia moft.
Her fields he cloath'd, and cheard her blasted face
With running fountains, and with springing grass.
No tracts of heaven's destructive fire remain ;
The fields and woods revive, and nature smiles again
But, as the god walk’d to and fro the earth, And rais’d the plants, and gave the spring its birth, By chance a fair Arcadian nymph he view'd, And felt the lovely charmer in his blood.
The nymph nor spun, nor dress’d with artful pride;
Her vest was gather'd up, her hair was tyd ;
Now in her hand a slender fpear she bore,
Now á light quiver on her shoulders wore ;
To chaste Diana from her youth inclin’d,
The sprightly warriors of the wood she join’d.
Diana too the gentle huntress lov’d,
Nor was there one of all the nymphs that roy'd
O’er Mænalus, amid the maiden throng,
More favour'd once; but favour lasts not long.
The sun now shone in all its strength, and drove The heated virgin panting to a grove; The grove around a grateful shadow cast : She dropt her arrows, and her bow unbrac’d's She flung herself on the cool grassy bed; And on the painted quiver rais’d her head, Jove saw the charming huntress unprepard, Stretch'd on the verdant turf, without a guard. " Here I am safe, he cries, from Juno's eye; " Or should my jealous queen the theft descry, " Yet would I venture on a theft like this, “ And stand her rage for such, for such a bliss !" Diana's shape and habit straight he took, Soften'd his brows, and smooth'd his awful look, And mildly in a female accent spoke. “ How fares my girl? How went the morning chace ?" To whom the virgin, starting from the grass, « All hail, bright deity, whom I prefer “ To Jove himself, though Jove himself were here.' The god was nearer than she thought, and heard. Well-pleas'd himself before himself preferr'd.