But he incessant grieved. At length address'd
To the superior powers a last request;
Praying, in expiation of his crime,
Thenceforth to mourn to all succeeding time.
And now of blood exhausted he appears,
Drain'd by a torrent of continual tears;
The fleshy color in his body fades,
And a green tincture all his limbs invades :
From his fair head, where curling locks late hung,
A horrid bush with bristled branches sprung,
Which, stiffening by degrees, its stem extends,
Till to the starry skies the spire ascends.
Apollo sad look'd on, and sighing, cried:
'Then, be for ever what thy prayer implied,
Bemoan'd by me, in others grief excite,
And still preside at every funeral rite.'
CONTINUED BY CROXALL.
THUS the sweet artist in a wondrous shade
Of verdant trees, which harmony had made,
Encircled sat, with his own triumphs crown'd,
Of listening birds, and savages around.
Again the trembling strings he dextrous tries,
Again from discord makes soft music rise;
Then tunes his voice:
Jove be my theme, and thou inspire my song:
To Jove my grateful voice I oft have raised,
Oft his almighty power with pleasure praised.
I sung the giants in a solemn strain,
Blasted and thunderstruck on Phlegra's plain.
Now be my lyre in softer accents moved,
To sing of blooming boys by gods beloved,
And to relate what virgins, void of shame,
Have suffer'd vengeance for a lawless flame.'
HYACINTHUS TRANSFORMED INTO A FLOWER.
A BEAUTIFUL youth, named Hyacinthus, is accidentally killed while playing at quoits with Apollo, who changes his blood into a flower bearing the name of his deceased friend.
PHOEBUS for thee too, Hyacinth, design'd
A place among the gods, had Fate been kind:
Yet this he gave: as oft as wintry rains
Are pass'd, and vernal breezes soothe the plains,
From the green turf a purple flower you rise,
And with your fragrant breath perfume the skies. 250
You, when alive, were Phoebus' darling boy;
In you he placed his hopes and fix'd his joy :
Their god the Delphic priests consult in vain;
Eurotas now he loves, and Sparta's plain:
His hands the use of bow and harp forget,
And hold the dogs, or bear the corded net;
O'er hanging cliffs swift he pursues the game;
Each hour his pleasure, each augments his flame.
The mid-day sun now shone with equal light
Between the past and the succeeding light;
They strip, then, smooth'd with suppling oil, essay
To pitch the rounded quoit, their wonted play.
A well-poised disk first hasty Phoebus threw;
It cleft the air, and whistled as it flew ;.des
It reach'd the mark, a most surprising length,
Which spoke an equal share of art and strength.
Scarce was it fallen, when, with too eager hand,
Young Hyacinth ran to snatch it from the sand;
But the cursed orb, which met a stony soil,
Flew in his face with violent recoil.
Both faint, both pale and breathless, now appear,
The boy with pain, the anxious god with fear.
He ran, and raised him bleeding from the ground,
Chafes his cold limbs, and wipes the fatal wound;
Then herbs of noblest juice in vain applies;
The wound is mortal, and his skill defies.
As in a water'd garden's blooming walk,
When some rude hand has bruised its tender stalk,
A fading lily droops its languid head,
And bends to earth, its life and beauty fled;
So Hyacinth, with head reclined, decays,
And, sickening, now no more his charms displays.
"O thou art gone, my boy,' Apollo cried,
'Defrauded of thy youth in all its pride!
Thou, once my joy, art all my sorrow now;
And to my guilty hand my grief I owe.
Yet from myself I might the fault remove,
Unless to sport and play a fault should prove,
O could I for thee, or but with thee, die!
But cruel Fates to me that power deny :
Yet on my tongue thou shalt for ever dwell;
Thy name my lyre shall sound, my verse shall tell;
And to a flower transform'd, unheard-of yet,
Stamp'd on thy leaves my cries thou shalt repeat:
The time shall come, prophetic I foreknow,
When, join'd to thee, a mighty chief shall grow,
And with my plaints his name thy leaf shall show.'
While Phoebus thus the laws of Fate reveal'd,
Behold, the blood which stain'd the verdant field
Is blood no longer; but a flower full blown,
Far brighter than the Tyrian scarlet, shone:
A lily's form it took; its purple hue
Was all that made a difference to the view:
Nor stopp'd he here:-the god upon its leaves
The sad expression of his sorrow weaves;
And to this hour the mournful purple wears
Ai, Ai, inscribed in funeral characters.
Nor are the Spartans, who so much are famed
For virtue, of their Hyacinth ashamed,
But still, with pompous wo and solemn state,
The Hyacinthian feasts they yearly celebrate.
TRANSFORMATIONS OF THE CERASTÆ AND
PROPTIDES.
THE Cerastæ are punished for their cruelty to strangers, by being changed into oxen by Venus-The angry goddess punishes the wantonness of the Propœtides by their transformations into stones.
INQUIRE of Amathus, whose wealthy ground
With veins of every metal does abound,
If she to her Propœtides would show
The honor Sparta does to him allow.
No more,' she 'd say, 'such wretches would we grace, Than those whose crooked horns deform'd their face, From thence Cerasta call'd, an impious race, Before whose gates a reverend altar stood,
To Jove inscribed, the hospitable god:
This had some stranger seen, with gore besmear'd,
The blood of lambs and bulls it had appear'd:
Their slaughter'd guests' it was; not flock nor herd.'
Venus these barb'rous sacrifices view'd
With just abhorrence, and with wrath pursued.
At first, to punish such nefarious crimes,
Their towns she meant to leave, her once-loved climes:
'But why,' said she, for their offence should I
My dear delightful plains and cities fly?
No, let the impious people, who have sinn’d,
A punishment in death or exile find :
If death or exile too severe be thought,
Let them in some vile shape bemoan their fault;
While next her mind a proper form employs,
Admonish'd by their horns, she fix'd her choice.
Their former crest remains upon their heads,
And their strong limbs an ox's shape invades.
The blasphemous Propœtides denied
Worship of Venus, and her power defied;
Unknowing how to blush, and shameless grown,
A small transition changes them to stone.
STORY OF PYGMALION AND THE STATUE.
PYGMALION, a celebrated artist, becomes enamored of a beautiful statue of marble which he has made; and at his request Venus endues it with animation, and crowns their union by the birth of a son.
PYGMALION, loathing their lascivious life,
Abhorr'd all womankind, but most a wife;
So single chose to live, and shunn'd to wed,
Well pleased to want a consort of his bed;
Yet fearing idleness, the nurse of ill,
In sculpture exercised his happy skill,
And carved in ivory such a maid, so fair,,
As Nature could not with his art compare,
Were she to work; but, in her own defence,
Must take her pattern here, and copy hence.
Pleased with his idol, he commends, admires,
Adores, and last, the thing adored desires:
A very virgin in her face was seen,
And had she moved, a living maid had been:
One would have thought she could have stirr'd, but
With modesty, and was ashamed to move:
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