Next him the bright Hæmonian bow is strung; And next, the Lion's grinning visage hung: The Scorpion's claws here clasp a wide extent, And here the Crab's in lesser clasps are bent. Nor would you find it easy to compose

[flows

The mettled steeds, when from their nostrils
The scorching fire, that in their entrails glows.
Ev'n I their headstrong fury scarce restrain,
When they grow warm and restive to the rein.
Let not my son a fatal gift require,
But, O! in time, recall your rash desire;
You ask a gift that may your parent tell,
Let these my fears your parentage reveal;
And learn a father from a father's care;
Look on my face; or, if my heart lay bare,
Could you but look, you'd read the father there.
Choose out a gift from seas, or earth, or skies,
For open to your wish all nature lies,
Only decline this one unequal task,
For 't is a mischief, not a gift, you ask;
You ask a real mischief, Phaeton:

Nay hang not thus about my neck, my son:
I grant your wish, and Styx has heard my voice,
Choose what you will, but make a wiser choice."
Thus did the god th' unwary youth advise;
But he still longs to travel through the skies.
When the fond father (for in vain he pleads)
At length to the Vulcanian chariot leads.
A golden axle did the work uphold, [gold.
Gold was the beam, the wheels were orb'd with
The spokes in rows of silver pleas'd the sight,
The seat with party-colour'd gems was bright;
Apollo shin'd amid the glare of light.
The youth with secret joy the work surveys;
When now the Morn disclos'd her purple rays;
The stars were fled; for Lucifer had chas'd
The stars away, and fled himself at last.
Soon as the father saw the rosy Morn,
And the Moon shining with a blunter horn,
He bid the nimble Hours without delay
Bring forth the steeds; the nimble Hours obey:
From their full racks the generous steeds retire,
Dropping ambrosial foams, and snorting fire.
Still anxious for his son, the god of day,
To make him proof against the burning ray,
His temples with celestial ointment wet,
Of sovereign virtue to repel the heat,
Then fix'd the beamy circle on his head,
And fetch'd a deep foreboding sigh, and said,
"Take this at least, this last advice, my son;
Keep a stiff rein, and move but gently on:
The coursers of themselves will run too fast,
Your art must be to moderate their haste.
Drive them not on directly through the skies,
But where the zodiac's winding circle lies,
Along the midmost zone; but sally forth
Nor to the distant south, nor stormy north.
The horses' hoofs a beaten track will show,
But neither mount too high, nor sink too low,
That no new fires or Heaven or Earth infest;
Keep the mid-way, the middle way is best.
Nor, where in radiant folds the Serpent twines,
Direct your course, nor where the Altar shines.
Shun both extremes; the rest let fortune guide,
And better for thee than thyself provide!
See, while I speak, the shades disperse away,
Aurora gives the promise of a day;
I'm call'd, nor can I make a longer stay.
Snatch up the reins; or still th' attempt forsake,
And not my chariot, but my counsel take,

While yet securely on the earth you stand;
Nor touch the horses with too rash a hand.
Let me alone to light the world, while you
Enjoy those beams which you may safely view."
He spoke in vain; the youth with active heat
And sprightly vigour vaults into the seat;
And joys to hold the reins, and fondly gives
Those thanks his father with remorse receives.

Mean while the restless horses neigh'd aloud,
Breathing out fire, and pawing where they stood.
Tethys, not knowing what had past, gave way,
And all the waste of Heaven before them lay.
They spring together out, and swiftly bear
The flying youth through clouds and yielding air;
With wingy speed outstrip the eastern wind,
And leave the breezes of the Morn behind.
The youth was light, nor could he fill the seat,
Or poise the chariot with its wonted weight:
But as at sea th' unballast vessel rides,
Cast to and fro, the sport of winds and tides;
So in the bounding chariot toss'd on high,
The youth is hurry'd headlong through the sky.
Soon as the steeds perceive it they forsake
Their stated course, and leave the beaten track.
The youth was in a maze, nor did he know
Which way to turn the reins, or where to go;
Nor would the horses, had he known, obey.
Then the Seven Stars first felt Apollo's ray,
And wish'd to dip in the forbidden sea.
The folded Serpent next the frozen pole,
Stiff and benumb'd before, began to roll.
And rag'd with inward heat, and threaten'd war,
And shot a redder light from every star;
Nay, and 'tis said, Bootes too, that fain
Thou wouldst have fled, though cumber'd with thy
wain.

Th' unhappy youth, then bending down his head, Saw earth and ocean far beneath him spread: His colour chang'd, he startled at the sight, And his eyes darken'd by too great a light. Now could he wish the fiery steeds untry'd, His birth obscure, and his request deny'd: Now would he Merops for his father own, And quit his boasted kindred to the Sun.

So fares the pilot when his ship is tost In troubled seas, and all its steerage lost; He gives her to the winds, and in despair Secks his last refuge in the gods and prayer. What could he do? His eyes if backward cast, Find a long path he had already past; If forward, still a longer path they find: Both he compares, and measures in his mind; And sometimes casts an eye upon the east, And sometimes looks on the forbidden west. The horses' names he knew not in the fright: Nor would he loose the reins, nor could he hold them tight.

Now all the horrours of the Heavens he spies, And monstrous shadows of prodigious size, That, deck'd with stars, lie scatter'd o'er the skies. There is a place above, where Scorpio bent In tail and arms surrounds a vast extent; In a wide circuit of the Heavens he shines, And fills the space of two celestial signs. Soon as the youth beheld him, vex'd with heat, Brandish his sting, and in his poison sweat, Half dead with sudden fear he dropt the reins; The horses felt them loose upon their manes, And flying out through all the plains above, Ran uncontroll'd where'er their fury drove;

Rush'd on the stars, and through a pathless way
Of unknown regions hurry'd on the day,
And now above, and now below they flew,
And near the Earth the buruing chariot drew.
The clouds disperse in fumes, the wondering

Moon

Beholds her brother's steeds beneath her own;
The highlands smoke, cleft by the piercing rays,
Or, clad with woods, in their own fuel blaze.
Next o'er the plains, where ripen'd harvests grow,
The running conflagration spreads below.
But these are trivial ills: whole cities burn,
And peopled kingdoms into ashes turn.

The mountains kindle as the car draws near,
Athos and Tmolus red with fires appear;
Qeagrian Hæmus (then a single name)
And virgin Helicon increase the flame;
Taurus and Octe glare amid the sky,
And Ida, spite of all her fountains, dry.
Eryx, and Othrys, and Citharon, glow;
And Rhodope, no longer cloth'd in snow;
High Pindus, Mimas, and Parnassus, sweat,
And Etna rages with redoubled heat.
Ev'n Scythia, through her hoary regions warm'd,
In vain with all her native frost was arm'd.
Cover'd with flames, the towering Appennine,
And Caucasus, and proud Olympus, shine;
And, where the long-extended Alps aspire,
Now stands a huge continued range of fire.
Th' astonish'd youth, where'er his eyes could
Beheld the universe around him burn;
The world was in a blaze; nor could he bear
The sultry vapours and the scorching air,
Which from below, as from a furnace, flow'd;
And now the axle-tree beneath him glow'd:
Lost in the whirling clouds, that round him broke,
And white with ashes, hovering in the smoke,
He flew where'er the horses drove, nor knew
Whither the horses drove, or where he flew.
'Twas then, they say, the swarthy Moor begun
To change his hue, and blacken in the Sun.
Then Lybia first, of all her moisture drain'd,
Became a barren waste, a wild of sand.
The water-nymphs lament their empty urns;
Boeotia, robb'd of silver Dirce, mourns;
Corinth Pyrene's wasted spring bewails;
And Argos grieves whilst Amymonè fails.

[turn,

Their rocks are all discover'd, and increase
The number of the scatter'd Cyclades.
The fish in shoals about the bottom creep,
Nor longer dares the crooked dolphin leap:
Gasping for breath, th' unshapen phocæ die,
And on the boiling wave extended lie.
Nereus, and Doris with her virgin train,
Seek out the last recesses of the main;
Beneath unfathomable depths they faint,
And secret in their gloomy caverns pant.
Stern Neptune thrice above the waves upheld
His face, and thrice was by the flames repell'd.
The Earth at length on every side embrac'd
With scalding seas that floated round her waste,
When now she felt the springs and rivers come,
And crowd within the hollow of her womb,
Up-lifted to the Heavens her blasted head,
And clapt her hands upon her brows and said;
(But first, impatient of the sultry heat,

Sunk deeper down, and sought a cooler seat:)
"If you, great king of gods, iny death approve,
And I deserve it, let me die by Jove;

If I must perish by the force of fire,

Let ine transfix'd with thunderbolts expire,
See, whilst I speak, my breath the vapours choke,"
For now her face lay wrapt in clouds of smoke,
"See my sing'd hair, behold my faded eye,
And wither'd face, where heaps of cinders lie!
And does the plough for this my body tear?
This the reward for all the fruits I bear,
Tortur'd with rakes, and harass'd all the year?
That herbs for cattle daily I renew,

[smoke.

And food for man, and frankincense for you?
But grant me guilty; what has Neptune 'done?
Why are his waters boiling in the Sun?
The wavy empire, which by lot was given, [ven?
Why does it waste, and further shrink from Hea-
If I nor he your pity can provoke,
See your own Heavens, the Heavens begin to
Should once the sparkles catch those bright abodes,
Destruction seizes on the Heavens and gods;
Atlas becomes unequal to his freight,
And almost faints beneath the glowing weight.
If Heaven, and earth, and sea together burn,
All must again into their chaos turn.
Apply some speedy cure, prevent our fate,
And succour Nature, ere it be too late." [spread,
She ceas'd; for, chok'd with vapours round her
Down to the deepest shades she sunk her head.

Jove call'd to witness every power above,
And ev'n the god, whose son the chariot drove,
That what he acts, he is compell'd to do,
Or universal ruin must ensue.

Straight he ascends the high ethereal throne,
From whence he us'd to dart his thunder down,
From whence his showers and storms he us'd to

The breathless Phaeton, with flaming hair,
Shot from the chariot, like a falling star,
That in a summer's evening from the top
Of Heaven drops down, or seems at least to drop;
Till on the Po his blasted corpse was hurl'd,
Far from his country, in the western world.

PHAETON'S SISTERS TRANSFORMED INTO TREES.

THE Latian nymphs came round him, and amaz'd

On the dead youth, transfix'd with thunder, gaz'd;
And, whilst yet smoking from the bolt he lay,
His shatter'd body to a tomb convey,
And o'er the tomb an epitaph devise:
"Here he who drove the Sun's bright chariot lies;
His father's fiery steeds he could not guide,
But in the glorious enterprise he dy'd."

Apollo hid his face, and pin'd for grief,
And, if the story may deserve belief,
The space of one whole day is said to run,
From morn to wonted eve, without a Sun:
The burning ruins, with a fainter ray,
Supply the Sun, and counterfeit a day,
A day that still did Nature's face disclose:
This comfort from the mighty mischief rose.
But Clymenè, enrag'd with grief, laments,
And, as her grief inspires, her passion vents:
Wild for her son, and frantic in her woes,
With hair dishevel'd, round the world she goes,
To seek where'er his body might be cast;
Till, on the borders of the Po, at last

The name inscrib'd on the new tomb appears;
The dear, dear name she bathes in flowing tears,
Hangs o'er the tomb, unable to depart,
And hugs the marble to her throbbing heart.

Her daughters too lament, and sigh and mourn,
(A fruitless tribute to their brother's urn;)
And beat their naked bosoms, and complain,
And call aloud for Phaeton in vain:

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, Phaethusa, 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 filis her band 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 hardening into wood;
But still above were female heads display'd,
And mouths that call'd the 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 the 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, Mix'd 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 sisters' 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 issued 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 remembering 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 sun-shine, 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 griefs 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 murdering thunder by;
Then will he own, perhaps, but own too late,
My son deserv'd not so severe a fate."

[pray

The gods stand round him, as he mourns, and 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 prayers and threats. Prevail'd upon at length, again he took

The harness'd steeds, that still with horrour 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 Heavens 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 different coast,
And every land; but on Arcadia most.
Her fields he cloth'd, and cheer'd her blasted face
With running fountains, and with springing grass.

No tracts of Heaven'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 stopt 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! Possest at length of what his heart desir'd, Back to his Heavens th' insulting 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;
"Begone!" the goddess cries with stern disdain,
"Begone!" nor dare the hallow'd stream to
stain;"

She fled, for-ever banish'd from the train.

This Juno heard, who long had watch'd 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."

This said, her hand within her hair she wound, Swung her to earth, and dragg'd her on the grounde; The prostrate wretch lifts up her arms in prayer; Her arms grow shaggy, and deform'd with hair, Her nails are sharpen'd into pointed claws,

Her hands bear half her weight, and turn to paws;
Her lips, that once could tempt a god, begin
To grow distorted in an ugly grin.
And, lest the supplicating brute might reach
The ears of Jove, she was depriv'd of speech:
Her surly voice through a hoarse passage came
In savage sounds: her mind was still the same.
The furry monster fix'd her eyes above,

And heav'd her new unwieldy paws to Jove,
And begg'd his aid with inward groans; and though
She could not call him false, she thought him so.
How did she fear to lodge in woods alone,
And haunt the fields and meadows once her own!
How often would the deep-mouth'd dogs pursue,
Whilst from her hounds the frighted huntress flew!
How did she fear her fellow brutes, and shun
The shaggy bear, though now herself was one!
How from the sight of rugged wolves retire,
Although the grim Lycaon was her sire!

But now her son had fifteen summers told,
Fierce at the chase, and in the forest bold;
When, as he beat the woods in quest of prey,
He chanc'd to rouse his mother where she lay.
She knew her son, and kept him in her sight,
And fondly gaz'd: the boy was in a fright,
And aim'd a pointed arrow at her breast;
And would have slain his mother in the beast;
But Jove forbad, and snatch'd them through the
air

In whirlwinds up to Heaven, and fix d them there:
Where the new constellations nightly rise,
And add a lustre to the northern skies,

When Juno saw the rival in her height,

The daughters of king Cecrops undertook

me.

You'll see, when Night has cover'd all things o'er,
Jove's starry bastard and triumphant whore
Usurp the Heavens; you'll see them proudly roll
In their new orbs, and brighten all the pole.
And who shall now on Juno's altar wait,
When those she hates grow greater by her hate?
I on the nymph a brutal form impress'd,
Joye to a goddess has transform'd the beast:
This, this was all my weak revenge could do:
But let the god his chaste amours pursue,
And, as he acted after lo's rape,
Restore th' adultress to her former shape;
Then may he cast his Juno off, and lead
The great Lycaon's offspring to his bed.
But you, ye venerable powers, be kind;
And, if my wrongs a due resentment find,
Receive not in your waves their setting beams,
Nor let the glaring strumpet taint your streams.'
The goddess ended, and her wish was given.
Back she return'd in triumph up to Heaven;
Her gaudy peacocks drew her through the skies,
Their tails were spotted with a thousand eyes;
The eyes of Argus on their tails were rang'd,
At the same time the raven's colour chang'd.

THE STORY OF CORONIS, AND BIRTH OF ÆSCULAPIUS.

THE raven once in snowy plumes was drest,
White as the whitest dove's unsully'd breast,
Fair as the guardian of the capitol,
Soft as the swan; a large and lovely fowl;

His tongue, his prating tongue, had chang'd him quite,

To sooty blackness from the purest white.

The story of his change shall here be told; In Thessaly there liv'd a nymph of old, Coronis nam'd; a peerless maid she shin'd, Confest the fairest of the fairer kind.

Apollo loy'd her, till her guilt he knew;

On what was hid within. I stood to see
The charge obey'd, perch'd on a neighbouring

tree.

The sisters Pandrosos and Hersè keep
The strict command; Aglauros needs would peep,
And saw the monstrous infant in a fright,
And call'd her sisters to the hideous sight:
A boy's soft shape did to the waist prevail,
But the boy ended in a dragon's tail.
I told the stern Minerva all that pass'd,
But, for my pains, discarded and disgrac'd,
The frowning goddess drove me from her sight,
And for her favourite chose the bird of night.
Be then no tell-tale; for I think my wrong
Enough to teach a bird to hold her tongue.

"But you, perhaps, may think I was remov'd
As never by the heavenly maid belov'd;
But I was lov'd; ask Pallas if I lie;
Though Pallas hate me now, she won't deny;
For I, whom in a feather'd shape you view,
Was once a maid (by Heaven the story's true),
A blooming maid, and a king's daughter too.
A.crowd of lovers own'd my beauty's charms;
My beauty was the cause of all my harms;
Neptune, as on his shores I went to rove,
Observ'd me in my walks, and fell in love.
He made his courtship, he confess'd his pain,
And offer'd force when all his arts were vain;
Swift he pursued: 1 ran along the strand,
Till, spent and weary'd on the sinking sand,
I shriek'd aloud, with cries I fill'd the air
To gods and men; nor god nor man was there:
A virgin goddess heard a virgin's prayer.
For, as my arms I lifted to the skies,

I saw black feathers from my fingers rise;
I strove to fling my garment on the ground;
My garment turn'd to plumes, and girt me round.
My hands to beat my naked bosom try;
Nor naked bosom now nor hands had I.
Lightly I tript, nor weary as before
Sunk in the sand, but skimm'd along the shore;
Till, rising on my wings, I was preferr'd
To be the chaste Minerva's virgin bird:
Preferr'd in vain! I now am in disgrace:
Nyctimene the owl enjoys my place.

"On her incestuous life I need not dwell

true.

But his own bird, the raven, chanc'd to find
The false-one with a secret rival join'd.
Coronis begg'd him to suppress the tale,
But could not with repeated prayers prevail.
His milk-white pinions to the god he ply'd;
The busy daw flew with him side by side,
And by a thousand teasing questions drew
Th' important secret from him as they flew.
The daw gave honest counsel, though despis'd,
And, tedious in her tattle, thus advis'd.
"Stay, silly bird, th' ill-natur'd task refuse,
Nor be the bearer of unwelcome news.
Be warn'd by my example: you discern
What now I am, and what I was shall learn.
My foolish honesty was all my crime;
Then hear my story. Once upon a time,
The two-shap'd Ericthonius had his birth
(Without a mother) from the teeming Earth;
Minerva nurs'd him, and the infant laid
Within a chest, of twining osiers made.

And of her dire amours you must have heard,
For which she now does penance in a bird,
That, conscious of her shame, avoids the light,
And loves the gloomy covering of the night;
The birds, where'er she flutters, scare away
The hooting wretch, and drive her from the day."
The raven, urg'd by such impertinence,
Grew passionate, it seems, and took offence,
And curst the harmiess daw; the daw withdrew:
The raven to her injur'd patron flew,
And found him out, and told the fatal truth
Of false Coronis and the favour'd youth.

The god was wroth; the colour left his look,
The wreath his head, the harp his hand forsook;
His silver bow and feather'd shafts he took,
And lodg'd an arrow in the tender breast,
That had so often to his own been prest.
Down fell the wounded nymph, and sadly groan'd,
And pull'd his arrow reeking from the wound;
And, weltering in her blood, thus faintly cry'd,
Ab, cruel god! though I have justly dy'd,