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When from the bending bow an arrow sent,
Join'd as they were, through both their bodies went:
Both groan'd, and writhing both their limbs with
They fell together bleeding on the plain; [pain,
Then both their languid eyeballs faintly roll,
And thus together breathe away their soul.
With grief Alphenor saw their doleful plight,
And smote his breast, and sicken'd at the sight;
Then to their succour ran with eager haste,
And, fondly griev'd, their stiffening limbs embrac'd;
But in the action falls: a thrilling dart,

By Phoebus guided, pierc'd him to the heart.
This, as they drew it forth, his midriff tore,
Its barbed point the fleshy fragments bore,
And let the soul gush out in streams of purple gore.
But Damasichthon, by a double wound,
Beardless and young, lay gasping on the ground.
Fix'd in his sinewy ham, the steely point

Stuck through his knee, and pierc'd the nervous
And, as he stoop'd to tug the painful dart, [joint:
Another stuck him in a vital part;

[sprung.

Shot through his wezon, by the wing it hung,
The life-blood forc'd it out, and darting upward
Ilioneus, the last, with terror stands,
Lifting in prayer his unavailing hands;
And ignorant from whom his griefs arise,
Spare me, O all ye heavenly pow'rs!' he cries.
Phoebus was touch'd too late, the sounding bow
Had sent the shaft, and struck the fatal blow;
Which yet but gently gor'd his tender side,
So by a slight and easy wound he died.

Swift to the mother's ears the rumour came,
And doleful sighs the heavy news proclaim;

With anger and surprise inflam'd by turns,
In furious rage her haughty stomach burns:
First she disputes the' effects of heavenly pow'r,
Then at their daring boldness wonders more;
For poor Amphion, with sore grief distress'd,
Hoping to soothe his cares by endless rest,
Had sheath'd a dagger in his wretched breast.
And she, who toss'd her high disdainful head,
When through the streets in solemn pomp she led
The throng that from Latona's altar fled,
Assuming state beyond the proudest queen,
Was now the miserablest object seen.
Prostrate among the clay-cold dead she fell,
And kiss'd an undistinguish'd last farewell.
Then her pale arms advancing to the skies,
'Cruel Latona! triumph now,' she cries;
'My grieving soul in bitter anguish drench,
And with my woes your thirsty passion quench;
Feast your black malice at a price thus dear,
While the sore pangs of seven such deaths I bear.
Triumph, too cruel rival, and display

Your conquering standard; for you've won the day.
Yet I'll excel; for yet, though seven are slain,
Superior still in number I remain.'

Scarce had she spoke; the bow-string's twanging

sound

Was heard, and dealt fresh terrors all around;
Which all, but Niobè alone, confound.
Stun'd, and obdurate by her load of grief,
Insensible she sits, nor hopes relief.

Before the funeral biers, all weeping sad,
Her daughters stood, in vests of sable clad.
When one, surpris'd, and stung with sudden smart,
In vain attempts to draw the sticking dart:

But to grim death her blooming youth resigns, And o'er her brother's corps her dying head reclines.

This, to assuage her mother's anguish tries,
And, silenc'd in the pious action, dies;
Shot by a secret arrow, wing'd with death,
Her faltering lips but only gasp'd for breath.
One on her dying sister breathes her last;
Vainly in flight another's hopes are plac'd:
This hiding, from her fate a shelter seeks;
That trembling stands, and fills the air with shrieks.
And all in vain; for now all six had found
Their way to death, each by a different wound.
The last with eager care the mother veil'd,
Behind her spreading mantle close conceal'd,
And with her body guarded, as a shield.
· Only for this, this youngest, I implore,
Grant me this one request, I ask no more;
O grant me this!' she passionately cries:-
But while she speaks, the destin'd virgin dies.

THE TRANSFORMATION Of Niobe.
Widow'd and childless, lamentable state!
A doleful sight, among the dead she sate;
Harden'd with woes, a statue of despair,
To every breath of wind unmov'd her hair;
Her cheek still reddening, but its colour dead,
Faded her eyes, and set within her head,
No more her pliant tongue its motion keeps,
But stands congeal'd within her frozen lips.
Stagnate and dull, within her purple veins,
Its current stop'd, the lifeless blood remains.
Her feet their usual offices refuse,

Her arms and neck their graceful gestures lose :

Action and life from every part are gone,
And ev'n her entrails turn to solid stone;

Yet still she weeps, and, whirl'd by stormy winds,
Borne through the air her native country finds;
There fix'd, she stands upon a bleaky hill,
There yet her marble cheeks eternal tears distil.

THE PEASANTS OF LYCIA TRANSFORMED TO FROGS.

Then all, reclaim'd by this example, show'd
A due regard for each peculiar god:

Both men and women their devoirs express'd,
And great Latona's awful power confess'd.
Then, tracing instances of older time,
To suit the nature of the present crime,
Thus one begins his tale.- -Where Lycia yields
A golden harvest from its fertile fields.
Some churlish peasants, in the days of yore,
Provok'd the goddess to exert her pow'r.
The thing indeed the meanness of the place
Has made obscure, surprising as it was;
But I myself once happen'd to behold
The famous lake of which the story's told.
My father then, worn out by length of days,
Nor able to sustain the tedious ways,
Me with a guide had sent the plaius to roam,
And drive his well-fed straggling heifers home.
Here, as we saunter'd through the verdant meads,
We spied a lake o'ergrown with trembling reeds,
Whose wavy tops an opening scene disclose,
From which an antique smoky altar rose.
I, as my superstitious guide had done,

Stop'd short, and bless'd myself, and then went on;
Yet I inquir'd to whom the altar stood,
Faunus, the Naiads, or some native god?

'No silvan deity,' my friend replies,

6 Enshrin'd within this hallow'd altar lies. For this, O youth, to that fam'd goddess stands, Whom at the' imperial Juno's rough commands, Of every quarter of the earth bereav'd, Delos, the floating isle, at length receiv'd. Who there, in spite of enemies, brought forth, Beneath an olive shade, her great twin-birth. Hence too she fled the furious stepdame's pow'r, And in her arms a double godhead bore; And now the borders of fair Lycia gain'd, Just when the summer solstice parch'd the land. With thirst the goddess languishing, no more Her emptied breast would yield its milky store; When from below, the smiling valley show'd A silver lake that in its bottom flow'd; A sort of clowns were reaping, near the bank, The bending osier, and the bulrush dank; The cress and water lily, fragrant weed, Whose juicy stalk the liquid fountains feed. The goddess came, and kneeling on the brink, Stoop'd at the fresh repast, prepar'd to drink. Then thus, being hinder'd by the rabble race, In accents mild expostulates the case: "Water I only ask, and sure 'tis hard From nature's common rights to be debar'd: This, as the genial sun and vital air, Should flow alike to every creature's share. Yet still I ask, and as a favour crave, That which, a public bounty, nature gave. Nor do I seek my weary limbs to drench; Only with one cool draught my thirst I'd quench. Now from my throat the usual moisture dries, And ev❜n my voice in broken accents dies:

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