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."

BY OZELL.

240

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.

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255

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. You, when alive, were Phoebus' darling boy; 251 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 midday sun now shone with equal light Between the past and the succeeding light; 260 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 ; It reach'd the mark, a most surprising length, Which spoke an equal share of art and strength.

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Scarce was it fallen, when, with too eager hand,
Young Hyacinth ran to snatch it from the sand;
But the curs'd orb, which met a stony soil,
Flew in his face with violent recoil.

270

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,

275

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;

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So Hyacinth, with head reclined, decays,
And, sickening, now no more his charms displays.
"Oh, 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,
Oh 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:

296 Ajax.

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300

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.

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310

TRANSFORMATIONS OF THE CERASTE 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 transformation into stones.

INQUIRE of Amathus, whose wealthy ground
With veins of every metal does abound,

If she to her Propetides would show
The honour Sparta does to him allow.

315

"No more," she'd say, "such wretches would we

grace,

Than those whose crooked horns deform'd their face,
From thence Cerastæ call'd, an impious race,
Before whose gates a reverend altar stood,
To Jove inscribed, the hospitable god:

320

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. 325
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, 330 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;

336

Unknowing how to blush, and shameless grown, 340 A small transition changes them to stone.

BY DRYDEN.

STORY OF PYGMALION AND THE STATUE.

PYGMALION, a celebrated artist, becomes enamoured of a beautiful statue of ivory which he has made; and at his request Venus endues it with animation, and crowns their union by the birth of a son.

345

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

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355

strove

With modesty, and was ashamed to move:

Art hid with art, so well perform'd the cheat,

It caught the carver with his own deceit :

360

He knows 'tis madness, yet he must adore,
And still the more he knows it, loves the more.
The flesh, or what so seems, he touches oft,
Which feels so smooth that he believes it soft;
Fired with this thought, at once he strain'd the
breast,

And on the lips a loving kiss impress'd.

365

'Tis true, the harden'd breast resists the gripe, And the cold lips return a kiss unripe:

But when, retiring back, he look'd again,

To think it ivory was a thought too mean;

With flattery now he seeks her mind to move,
And now with gifts, the powerful bribes of love:
He furnishes her closet first, and fills

370

The crowded shelves with rarities of shells;

Adds orient pearls, which from the conchs he drew,
And all the sparkling stones of various hue;
And parrots, imitating human tongue,

375

And singing birds, in silver cages hung;

And every fragrant flower and odorous green Were sorted well, with lumps of amber laid between:

Rich fashionable robes her person deck,

380

Pendants her ears, and pearls adorn her neck :
Her taper'd fingers too with rings are graced,
And an embroider'd zone surrounds her slender waist.
Thus like a queen array'd, so richly dress'd,
Beauteous she show'd, but unadorn'd the best. 385
Then from the floor he raised a royal bed,
With coverings of Sidonian purple spread.
The feast of Venus came, a solemn day,
To which the Cypriots due devotion pay;
With gilded horns the milk-white heifers led,
Slaughter'd before the sacred altars bled.

390

Pygmalion offering, first approach'd the shrine, And then with prayers implored the powers divine : Almighty gods, if all we mortals want, If all we can require, be yours to grant,

395