On Acis' bofom I my head reclin’d :
And still preserve the poem in my mind.
O lovely Galatea, whiter far

Than falling fnows, and rifing lilies are;
More flow'ry than the meads, as cryftal bright;
Erect as alders, and of equal height:

More wanton than a kid; more fleek thy skin,
Than orient fhells, that on the fhores are feen :
Than apples fairer, when the boughs they lade;
Pleafing, as winter funs, or fummer shade :
More grateful to the fight, than goodly plains;
And fofter to the touch, than down of fwans,
Or curds new turn'd; and sweeter to the tafte,
Than fwelling grapes, that to the vintage haste :
More clear than ice, or running ftreams, that ftray
Thro' garden plots, but ah! more swift than they.
Yet, Galatea, harder to be broke

Than bullocks, unreclaim'd to bear the yoke :
And far more ftubborn than the knotted oak:
Like fliding ftreams, impoffible to hold;

Like them fallacious; like their fountains, cold:
More warping, than the willow, to decline
My warm embrace; more brittle than the vine;
Immoveable, and fixt in thy disdain :

Rough, as these rocks, and of a harder grain ;
More violent, than is the rifing flood:
And the prais'd peacock is not half fo proud:
Fierce as the fire, and fharp as thistles are;
And more outrageous, than a mother-bear:
Deaf as the billows to the vows I make;
And more revengeful than a trodden snake:
In fwiftness fleeter than the flying hind,
Or driven tempefts, or the driving wind.
All other faults with patience I can bear;
But swiftness is the vice I only fear.

Yet if

you knew me well, you would not fhun
My love, but to my wifh'd embraces run :
Would languish in your turn, and court my ftay;
And much repent of your unwife delay.

My palace, in the living rock, is made
By nature's hand; a fpacious pleasing shade;
Which neither heat can pierce, nor cold invade.
My garden fill'd with fruits you may behold,
And grapes in clufters, imitating gold;
Some blushing bunches of a purple hue :
And these, and those, are all referv'd for you.
Red ftrawberries in fhades expecting stand,
Proud to be gather'd by so white a hand.
Autumnal cornels latter fruit provide,

And plumbs, to tempt you, turn their gloffy fide :
Not thofe of common kinds; but fuch alone,
As in Phæacian orchards might have grown:
Nor chefnuts fhall be wanting to your food,
Nor garden-fruits, nor wildings of the wood;
The laden boughs for you alone shall bear ;
And yours fhall be the product of the year.

The flocks, you fee, are all my own; befide
The reft that woods and winding vallies hide;
And those that folded in the caves abide.
Afk not the numbers of my growing store;
Who knows how many, knows he has no more.
Nor will I praise my cattle; truft not me,
But judge yourself, and pass your own decree :
Behold their fwelling dugs; the fweepy weight
Of ewes, that fink beneath the milky freight;
In the warm folds their tender lambkins lie;
Apart from kids, that call with human cry.
New milk in nut-brown bowls is duly ferv'd
For daily drink; the rest for cheese reserv'd.
Nor are these houfhold dainties all my ftore:
The fields and forefts will afford us more;
The deer, the hare, the goat, the favage boar.

}

}

All forts of ven'fon; and of birds the beft;
A pair of turtles taken from the neft.

I walk'd the mountains, and two cubs I found,
Whose dam had left 'em on the naked ground;
So like, that no distinction could be seen ;
So pretty, they were presents for a queen ;
And fo they fhall; I took them both away;
And keep, to be companions of your play.

Oh raise, fair nymph, your beauteous face above
The waves; nor fcorn my prefents, and my love.
Come, Galatea, come, and view my face;
I late beheld it, in the wat'ry glass,

And found it lovelier, than I fear'd it was.
Survey my tow'ring ftature, and my fize:
Not Jove, the Jove you dream, that rules the skies,
Bears fuch a bulk, or is fo largely spread:
My locks (the plenteous harveft of my head)
Hang o'er my manly face; and dangling down,
As with a fhady grove, my fhoulders crown.
Nor think, because my limbs and body bear
A thick-fet underwood of bristling hair,
My shape deform'd: what fouler fight can be,
Than the bald branches of a leaflefs tree?
Foul is the fteed without a flowing mane;
And birds, without their feathers, and their train.
Wool decks the sheep; and man receives a grace
From bufhy limbs, and from a bearded face.
My forehead with a fingle eye is fill'd,
Round as a ball, and ample as a fhield.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the radiant fun,
Is nature's eye; and fhe's content with one.
Add, that my father fways your feas, and I,
Like you, am of the watry family.

I make you his, in making you my own;
You I adore, and kneel to you alone :

G 4

Jove,

Jove, with his fabled thunder, I despise,
And only fear the lightning of your eyes.
Frown not, fair nymph; yet I could bear to be
Difdain'd, if others were difdain'd with me.
But to repulfe the Cyclops, and prefer

The love of Acis, heav'ns! I cannot bear.
But let the ftripling please himself; nay more,
Please you, tho' that's the thing I most abhor
The boy fhall find, if e'er we cope in fight,
These giant limbs endu'd with giant might.
His living bowels from his belly torn,

And scatter'd limbs, fhall on the flood be borne,
Thy flood, ungrateful nymph; and fate fhall find
That way for thee and Acis to be join'd.
For oh! I burn with love, and thy disdain.
Augments at once my paffion, and my pain.
Tranflated Ætna flames within my heart,
And thou, inhuman, wilt not ease my fmart.
Lamenting thus in vain, he rofe, and ftrode
With furious paces to the neighb'ring wood:
Reftlefs his feet, distracted was his walk;
Mad were his motions, and confus'd his talk.
Mad as the vanquish'd bull, when forc'd to yield
His lovely mistress, and forfake the field.

Thus far unfeen I faw: when, fatal chance
His looks directing, with a sudden glance,
Acis and I were to his fight betray'd;
Where, nought fufpecting, we fecurely play'd.
From his wide mouth a bellowing cry he caft;
I fee, I fee, but this fhall be your last.
A roar fo loud made Etna to rebound;
And all the Cyclops labour'd in the found.
Affrighted with his monftrous voice, I fled,
And in the neighb'ring ocean plung'd my head.
Poor Acis turn'd his back, and, Help, he cry'd,

}

Help,

Help, Galatea, help, my parent Gods,
And take me dying to your deep abodes.
The Cyclops follow'd; but he fent before
A rib, which from the living rock he tore :
Though but an angle reach'd him of the ftone,
The mighty fragment was enough alone,
To crush all Acis; 'twas too late to fave,
But what the fates allow'd to give, I gave:
That Acis to his lineage fhould return;
And roll, among the river Gods, his urn.
Straight iffu'd from the stone a stream of blood;
Which loft the purple, mingling with the flood.
Then like a troubled torrent it appear'd :
The torrent too, in little space, was clear'd.
The ftone was cleft, and thro' the yawning chink
New reeds arose, on the new river's brink.
The rock, from out its hollow womb, difclos'd
A found like water in its courfe oppos'd
When (wond'rous to behold) full in the flood,
Up ftart's a youth, and navel-high he stood.
Horns from his temples rife; and either horn
Thick wreaths of reeds (his native growth) adorn.
Were not his ftature taller than before,
His bulk augmented, and his beauty more,
His colour blue, for Acis he might pafs:

And Acis chang'd into a stream he was.
But, mine no more, he rolls along the plains
With rapid motion, and his name retains.

OF