And as in empty fields the stubble burns,
Or nightly travellers, when day returns,
Their useless torches on dry hedges throw,
That catch the flames, and kindle all the row;
So burns the God, confuming in defire,

And feeding in his breast the fruitless fire:

Her well-turn'd neck he view'd (her neck was bare)
And on her shoulders her difhevel'd hair:

Oh, were it comb'd, faid he, with what a grace
Would every waving curl become her face!

He view'd her eyes, like heavenly lamps that fhone!
He view'd her lips, too fweet to view alone,
Her taper fingers, and her panting breaft;
He praises all he fees, and for the rest
Believes the beauties yet unseen are best.
Swift as the wind, the damfel fled away,
Nor did for these alluring speeches stay:
Stay, nymph, he cry'd, I follow, not a foe:
Thus from the Lion trips the trembling Doe;
Thus from the Wolf the frighten'd Lamb removes,
And from pursuing Falcons fearful Doves;
Thou fhunn'ft a God, and shunn'ft a God, that loves.
Ah, left some thorn should pierce thy tender foot,
Or thou should'ft fall in flying my pursuit!

To sharp uneven ways thy fteps decline;
Abate thy fpeed, and I will bate of mine.
Yet think from whom thou doft fo rafhly fly;
Nor bafely born, nor fhepherd's fwain am I.
Perhaps thou know'ft not my fuperior state;
And from that ignorance proceeds thy hate,

Me

Me Claros, Delphos, Tenedos obey:
Thefe hands the Patareian fceptre fway.
The king of Gods begot me: what shall be,
Or is, or ever was, in fate, I see.
Mine is th' invention of the charming lyre;
Sweet notes and heavenly numbers I infpire.
Sure is my bow, unerring is my dart;

But ah! more deadly his, who pierc'd my heart.
Medicine is mine, what herbs and fimples grow
In fields and forefts, all their powers I know;
And am the great phyfician call'd below.
Alas, that fields and forests can afford
No remedies to heal their love-fick lord!
To cure the pains of love, no plant avails;
And his own physic the physician fails.

She heard not half, fo furiously the flies,
And on her ear th' imperfect accent dies.
Fear gave her wings; and as fhe fled, the wind
Increasing spread her flowing hair behind;

And left her legs and thighs expos'd to view;

Which made the God more eager to pursue.

The God was young, and was too hotly bent
To lofe his time in empty compliment:
But, led by love, and fir'd by such a fight,
Impetuously purfued his near delight.

As when th' impatient greyhound, flipt from far, Bounds o'er the glebe, to course the fearful hare, She in her speed does all her fafety lay;

And he with double fpeed purfues the prey;

VOL. XX.

Y

}

O'er-runs

O'er-runs her at the fitting turn, and licks
His chaps in vain, and blows upon the flix:
She fcapes, and for the neighbouring covert ftrives,
And, gaining shelter, doubts if yet fhe lives:
If little things with great we may compare,
Such was the God, and fuch the flying fair:
She, urg'd by fear, her feet did fwiftly move;
But he more swiftly, who was urg'd by love.
He gathers ground upon her in the chace:
Now breathes upon her hair, with nearer pace;
And juft is faftening on the wish'd embrace.
The nymph grew pale, and in a mortal fright,
Spent with the labour of fo long a flight;
And now despairing caft a mournful look,
Upon the streams of her paternal brook:
Oh, help, the cry'd, in this extremest need,
If Water-Gods are Deities indeed:

Gape, earth, and this unhappy wretch intomb:
Or change my form whence all my forrows come.
Scarce had the finish'd, when her feet fhe found
Benumb'd with cold, and faften'd to the ground:
A filmy rind about her body grows,

Her hair to leaves, her arms extend to boughs:
The nymph is all into a laurel gone,

The fmoothness of her skin remains alone.
Yet Phoebus loves her ftill, and, cafting round
Her bole, his arms, fome little warmth he found,
The tree still panted in th' unfinish'd part,
Not wholly vegetive, and heav'd her heart.

He

He fix'd his lips upon the trembling rind;

It fwerv'd afide, and his embrace declin'd.
To whom the God: Because thou canst not be
My mistress, I efpouse thee for my tree:
Be thou the prize of honour and renown;
The deathless poet, and the poem, crown.
Thou fhalt the Roman feftivals adorn,
And, after poets, be by victors worn.
Thou shalt returning Cæfar's triumph grace;
When pomps shall in a long proceffion pafs:
Wreath'd on the poft before his palace wait;
And be the facred guardian of the gate:
Secure from thunder, and unharm'd by Jove,
Unfading as th' immortal powers above:
And as the locks of Phoebus are unshorn,
So fhall perpetual green thy boughs adorn.
The grateful tree was pleas'd with what he said,
And shook the fhady honours of her head.

THE TRANSFORMATION OF IO INTO AN

HEIFER.

An ancient foreft in Theffalia grows;
Which Tempe's pleafant valley does inclofe;
Through this the rapid Peneus takes his course;
From Pindus rolling with impetuous force:
Mifts from the river's mighty fall arife;
And deadly damps inclofe the cloudy skies:
Perpetual fogs are hanging o'er the wood;
And founds of waters deaf the neighbourhood,

Deep, in a rocky cave, he makes abode:
A manfion proper for a mourning God.
Here he gives audience; iffuing out decrees
To rivers, his dependent Deities.

On this occafion hither they refort,

To pay their homage, and to make their court,
All doubtful, whether to congratulate

His daughter's honour, or lament her fate.
Sperchæus, crown'd with poplar, first appears;
Then old Apidanus came crown'd with years:
Enipeus turbulent, Amphryfos tame;
And as laft with lagging waters came.
Then of his kindred brooks a numerous throng
Condole his lofs, and bring their urns along.
Not one was wanting of the watery train,
'That fill'd his flood, or mingled with the main,
But Inachus, who, in his cave alone,
Wept not another's loffes, but his own;
For his dear lo, whether ftray'd or dead,
To him uncertain, doubtful tears he shed.
He fought her through the world, but fought in vain;
And, no where finding, rather fear'd her flain.
Her just returning from her father's brook,
Jove had beheld with a defiring look;

And, oh, fair daughter of the flood, he said,
Worthy alone of Jove's imperial bed,
Happy whoever fhall those charms poffefs!
The king of Gods (nor is thy lover lefs)
Invites thee to yon cooler fhades, to fhun
The fcorching rays of the meridian fun.

Nor