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, Phaëthusa, 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 she 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.
And now their legs, and breasts, and bodies stood
Crusted with bark, and hard'ning into wood;
But still above were female heads display'd,
And mouths, that call'd their mother to their aid.
What could, alas! the weeping mother do?
From this to that with eager haste she flew,
And kiss'd her sprouting daughters as they grew.
She tears the bark that to each body cleaves,
And from their verdant fingers strips 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;
Farewell 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,
Mixt in the sand; 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 realms he own'd,
Through pathless fields and lonely shores to range,
And woods, made thicker by the sister's change.
Whilst here, within the dismal gloom, alone,
The melancholy monarch made his moan,
His voice was lessen'd, as he try'd to speak,
And issu'd through a long extended neck;
His hair transforms to down, his fingers meet
In skinny films, and shape his oary feet;
From both his sides the wings and feathers break;
And from his mouth proceeds a blunted beak:
All Cycnus now into a swan was turn'd,
Who, still rememb'ring how his kinsman burn'd,
To solitary pools and lakes retires,

And loves the waters as oppos'd to fires.
Mean while Apollo in a gloomy shade
(The native lustre of his brows decay'd)
Indulging sorrow, sickens at the sight
Of his own sunshine, and abhors the light:
The hidden griefs, that in his bosom rise,
Sadden his looks, and overcast his eyes,
As when some dusky orb obstructs his ray,
And sullies, in a dim eclipse, the day.

Now secretly with inward griefs he pin'd,
Now warm resentments to his grief he join'd,
And now renounc'd his office to mankind.

"E'er since the birth of time," said he, "I've borne A long ungrateful toil without return;

Let now some other manage, if he dare,
The fiery steeds, and mount the burning car;
Or, if none else, let Jove his fortune try,
And learn to lay his murd'ring thunder by;
Then will he own, perhaps but own too late,
My son deserv'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 entreats,
Majestically mixing pray'rs and threats.
Prevail'd upon, at length, again he took

The harness'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 heav'ns 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 diff'rent coast,
And every land; but on Arcadia most,

Her fields he cloth'd, and chear'd her blasted face
With running fountains and with springing grass.
No tracks of heav'n'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 ty'd;
Now in her hand a slender spear she bore,
Now a 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 rov'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;
She flung herself on the cool
grassy bed;

And on the painted quiver rais'd her head.

Jove saw the charming huntress unprepar'd,
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 chase?"
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.

He then salutes her with a warm embrace;
And, ere she half had told the morning chase,
With love inflam'd, and eager on his bliss,
Smother'd her words, and stopp'd her with a kiss;
His kisses with unwonted ardour glow'd,
Nor could Diana's shape conceal the god.
The virgin did whate'er a virgin could;

(Sure Juno must have pardon'd, had she view'd)
With all her might against his force she strove;
But how can mortal maids contend with Jove!

Possess'd at length of what his heart desir'd,
Back to his heav'ns th' exulting god retir'd.
The lovely huntress, rising from the grass,
With down-cast eyes, and with a blushing face,
By shame confounded, and by fear dismay'd,
Flew from the covert of the guilty shade,
And almost, in the tumult of her mind,
Left her forgotten bow and shafts behind.
But now Diana, with a sprightly train
Of quiver'd virgins, bounding o'er the plain,
Call'd to the nymph; the nymph began to fear
A second fraud, a Jove disguis'd in her;
But, when she saw the sister nymphs, suppress'd
Her rising fears, and mingled with the rest.

How in the look does conscious guilt appear! Slowly she mov'd, and loiter'd in the rear; Nor lightly tripp'd, nor by the goddess ran, As once she us'd, the foremost of the train. Her looks were flush'd, and sullen was her mien, That sure the virgin goddess (had she been Aught but a virgin) must the guilt have seen. 'Tis said the nymphs saw all, and guess'd aright: And now the moon had nine times lost her light, When Dian, fainting in the mid-day beams, Found a cool covert and refreshing streams That in soft murmurs through the forest flow'd, And a smooth bed of shining gravel show'd.

A covert so obscure, and streams so clear, The goddess prais'd: "And now no spies are near, Let's strip, my gentle maids, and wash," she cries. Pleas'd with the motion, every maid complies; Only the blushing huntress stood confus'd, And form'd delays, and her delays excus'd; In vain excus'd: her fellows round her press'd, And the reluctant nymph by force undress'd. The naked huntress all her shame reveal'd, In vain her hands the pregnant womb conceal'd; "Be gone!" the goddess cries with stern disdain, "Be gone! nor dare the hallow'd stream to stain:" She fled, for ever banish'd from the train.

This Juno heard, who long had watched her time To punish the detested rival's crime;

The time was come: for, to enrage her more,
A lovely boy the teeming rival bore.

The goddess cast a furious look, and cry'd, "It is enough! I'm fully satisfy'd!

This boy shall stand a living mark, to prove
My husband's baseness and the strumpet's love:
But vengeance shall awake: those guilty charms,
That drew the Thunderer from Juno's arms,
No longer shall their wonted force retain,
Nor please the god, nor make the mortal vain.