Thence, in his saffron robe, for distant Thrace,
Hymen departs, through air’s unmeasured space,
By Orpheus call’d, the nuptial power attends,
But with ill-omen’d augury descends;
Nor cheerful look’d the god, nor prosperous spoke,
Nor blazed his torch, but wept in hissing smoke.
In vain they whirl it round, in vain they shake,
No rapid motion can its flames awake.

With dread these inauspicious signs were view’d,
And soon a more disastrous end ensued;
For as the bride, amid the Naiad train,
Ran joyful, sporting o’er the flow’ry plain,
A venom’d viper bit her as she pass’d;
Instant she fell, and sudden breathed her last.

When long his loss the Thracian had deplored,
Not by superior powers to be restored,
Inflamed by love, and urged by deep despair,
He leaves the realms of light and upper air,
Daring to tread the dark Tenarian road,
And tempt the shades in their obscure abode,
Through gliding spectres of the interr’d to go.
And phantom people of the world below:
Persephone he seeks, and him who reigns
O’er ghosts, and hell’s uncomfortable plains.
Arrived, he, tuning to his voice his strings,
Thus to the king and queen of shadows sings:

“Ye powers, who under earth your realms extend,
To whom all mortals must one day descend,
If here ’tis granted sacred truth to tell,
I come not curious to explore your hell,
Nor come to boast (by vain ambition fired)
How Cerberus at my approach retired;
My wife alone I seek, for her loved sake
These terrors I support, this journey take:
She, luckless wandering, or by fate misled,
Chanced on a lurking viper’s crest to tread;
The vengeful beast, inflamed with fury, starts,
And through her heel his deathful venom darts.
Thus was she snatch’d untimely to her tomb.
Her growing years cut short, and springing bloom.
Long I my loss endeavour’d to sustain,
And strongly strove; but strove, alas! in vain:
At length I yielded, won by mighty love;
Well known is that omnipotence above:
But here, I doubt, his unfelt influence fails;
And yet a hope within my heart prevails,
That here, ev’n here, he has been known of old,
At least if truth be by tradition told.
If fame of former loves belief may find,
You both by love, and love alone, were join’d.
Now, by the horrors which these realms surround,
By the vast chaos of these depths profound,
By the sad silence, which eternal reigns
O’er all the waste of these wide-stretching plains,
Let me again Eurydice receive,
Let fate her quick-spun thread of life reweave.
All our possessions are but loans from you,
And soon or late you must be paid your due;
Hither we haste to humankind’s last seat,
Your endless empire, and our sure retreat.
She too, when ripen’d years she shall attain,
Must, of avoidless right, be yours again.
I but the transient use of that require,
Which soon, too soon, I must resign entire.
But if the destinies refuse my vow,
And no remission of her doom allow,
Know, I’m determined to return no more;
So both retain, or both to life restore.”

Thus, while the bard melodiously complains,
And to his lyre accords his vocal strains,
The very bloodless shades attention keep,
And silent seem compassionate to weep;
Ev’n Tantalus his flood unthirsty views,
Nor flies the stream, nor he the stream pursues,
Ixion’s wondering wheel its whirl suspends,
And the voracious vulture, charm’d, attends;
No more the Belides their toil bemoan,
And Sisyphus, reclined, sits listening on his stone.

Then first, (’tis said,) by sacred verse subdued,
The furies felt their cheeks with tears bedew’d.
Nor could the rigid king or queen of hell
The impulse of pity in their hearts repel.

Now, from a troop of shades that last arrived,
Eurydice was call’d, and stood revived:
Slow she advanced, and halting, seem’d to feel
The fatal wound yet painful in her heel.
Thus he obtains the suit so much desired,
On strict observance of the terms required;
For if, before he reach the realms of air,
He backward cast his eyes to view the fair,
The forfeit grant, that instant, void is made,
And she for ever left a lifeless shade.

Now through the noiseless throng their way they bend,
And both with pain the rugged road ascend:
Dark was the path, and difficult, and steep,
And thick with vapours from the smoky deep.
They wellnigh now had pass’d the bounds of night,
And just approach’d the margin of the light,
When he, mistrusting lest her steps might stray,
And gladsome of the glimpse of dawning day,
His longing eyes impatient backward cast
To catch a lover’s look, but look’d his last;
For, instant dying, she again descends,
While he to empty air his arm extends:
Again she died, nor yet her lord reproved:
What could she say but that too well he loved?
One last farewell she spoke, which scarce he heard;
So soon she dropp’d, so sudden disappear’d.

All stunn’d he stood when thus his wife he view’d,
By second fate and double death subdued;
Not more amazement by that wretch was shown
Whom Cerberus beholding turn’d to stone;
Nor Olenus could more astonish’d look,
When on himself Lethea’s fault he took;
His beauteous wife, who, too secure, had dared
Her face to vie with goddesses, compared;
Once join’d by love, they stand united still,
Turn’d to contiguous rocks on Ida’s hill.

Now to repass the Styx in vain he tries;
Charon, averse, his pressing suit denies.
Seven days entire, along the infernal shores
Disconsolate, the bard Eurydice deplores;
Defiled with filth his robe, with tears his cheeks;
No sustenance, but grief and cares he seeks;
Of rigid fate incessant he complains,
And hell’s inexorable gods arraigns.
This ended, to high Rhodope he hastes,
And Haemus mountain, bleak with northern blasts

And now his yearly race the circling sun
Had thrice complete through watery Pisces run,
Since Orpheus fled the face of womankind,
And all soft union with the sex declined.
Whether his ill success this change had bred,
Or binding vows made to his former bed,
Whate’er the cause, in vain the nymphs contest,
With rival eyes, to warm his frozen breast;
For every nymph with love his lays inspired,
But every nymph, repulsed, with grief retired.

A hill there was, and on that hill a mead,
With verdure thick, but destitute of shade;
Where, now, the muse’s son no sooner sings,
No sooner strikes his sweet-resounding strings,
But distant groves the flying sounds receive,
And listening trees their rooted stations leave;
Themselves transplanting, all around they grow,
And various shades their various kinds bestow:
Here, tall Chaonian oaks their branches spread,
While weeping poplars, there, erect their head;
The foodful esculus here shoots his leaves;
That turf, soft lime-tree, this, fat beech, receives:
Here, brittle hazels; laurels, here, advance;
And there, tough ash, to form the hero’s lance:
Here, silver firs, with knotless trunks, ascend;
There, scarlet oaks beneath their acorns bend:
That spot admits the hospitable plane;
On this, the maple grows with clouded grain:
Here, watery willows are with lotus seen;
There, tamarisk, and box, for ever green:
With double hue, here, myrtles grace the ground,
And laurustines with purple berries crown’d;
With pliant feet, now, ivies this way wind,
Vines yonder rise, and elms with vines entwined;
Wild ornus now, the pitch-tree next, takes root,
And arbutus adorn’d with blushing fruit;
Then easy-bending palms, the victor’s prize,
And pines erect with bristly tops arise;
For Rhea grateful still, the pine remains,
For Atys still some favour she retains;
He once in human shape her breast had warm’d,
And now is cherish’d, to a tree transform’d.

Amid the throng of this promiscuous wood,
With pointed top, the taper cypress stood,
A tree, which once a youth, and heavenly fair,
Was of that deity the darling care,
Whose hand adapts, with equal skill, the strings
To bows with which he kills, and harps to which he sings.

For heretofore, a mighty stag was bred,
Which on the fertile fields of Caea fed;
In shape and size he all his kind excell’d,
And to Carthaean nymphs was sacred held;
His beamy head, with branches high display’d,
Afforded to itself an ample shade;
His horns were gilt, and his smooth neck was graced
With silver collars thick with gems enchased;
A silver boss upon his forehead hung,
And brazen pendants in his ear-rings rung;
Frequenting houses he familiar grew,
And learn’d, by custom, nature to subdue,
Till by degrees, of fear and wildness broke,
Ev’n stranger hands his proffer’d neck might stroke.

Much was the beast by Caea’s youth caress’d,
But thou, sweet Cyparissus, lovedst him best;
By thee, to pastures fresh, he oft was led,
By thee oft water’d at the fountain’s head;
His horns with garlands, now, by thee were tied,
And, now, thou on his back wouldst wanton ride;
Now here, now there, wouldst bound along the plains,
Ruling his tender mouth with purple reins.

’Twas when the summer sun, at noon of day,
Through glowing Cancer shot his burning ray,
’Twas then, the fav’rite stag, in cool retreat,
Had sought a shelter from the scorching heat:
Along the grass his weary limbs he laid,
Inhaling freshness, from the breezy shade,
When Cyparissus, with his pointed dart,
Unknowing, pierced him to the panting heart;
But when the youth, surprised, his error found,
And saw him dying of the cruel wound,
Himself he would have slain through desperate grief;
What said not Phoebus, that might yield relief:
To cease his mourning he the boy desired,
Or mourn no more than such a loss required;
But ho incessant grieved. At length address’d
To the superior powers a last request;
Praying, in expiation of his crime,
Thenceforth to mourn to all succeeding time.

And now of blood exhausted he appears,
Drain’d by a torrent of continual tears;
The fleshy colour in his body fades,
And a green tincture all his limbs invades:
From his fair head, where curling locks late hung,
A horrid bush with bristled branches sprung,
Which, stiffening by degrees, its stem extends,
Till to the starry skies the spire ascends.

Apollo sad look’d on, and sighing, cried:
“Then, be for ever what thy prayer implied,
Bemoan’d by me, in others grief excite,
And still preside at every funeral rite.”

Thus the sweet artist in a wondrous shade
Of verdant trees, which harmony had made,
Encircled sat, with his own triumphs crown’d,
Of listening birds and savages around.
Again the trembling strings he dext’rous tries,
Again from discord makes soft music rise;
Then tunes his voice: “Oh muse, from whom I sprung,
Jove be my theme, and thou inspire my song:
To Jove ray 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.”

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;
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;
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.
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.
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,
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;
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 chief8 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:
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.

Inquire of Amathus, whose wealthy ground
With veins of every metal does abound,
If she to her Propoetides would show
The honour Sparta does to him allow.
“No more,” she’d say, “such wretches would we grace,
Than those whose crooked horns deform’d their face,
From thence Cerastae call’d, an impious race,
Before whose gates a reverend altar stood,
To Jove inscribed, the hospitable god:
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.
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,
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 Propoetides denied
Worship of Venus, and her power defied;
Unknowing how to blush, and shameless grown,
A small transition changes them to stone.

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 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:
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.
’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
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,
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,
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.
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.

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,
Make this fair statue mine, he would have said,
But changed his words for shame, and only pray’d,
“Give me the likeness of my ivory maid.”

The golden goddess, present at the prayer,
Well knew he meant th’ inanimated fair,
And gave the sign of granting his desire;
For thrice in cheerful flames ascends the fire.
The youth, returning to his mistress hies,
And, impudent in hope, with ardent eyes,
And beating breast, by the dear statue lies.
He kisses her white lips, renews the bliss,
And looks, and thinks they redden at the kiss;
He thought them warm before, nor longer stays,
But next his hand on the hard substance lays;
Hard as it was, beginning to relent,
It seem’d the block beneath his fingers bent:
He felt again⁠—his fingers made a print⁠—
’Twas flesh, but flesh so firm, it rose against the dint:
The pleasing task he fails not to renew;
Soft, and more soft, at every touch it grew;
Like pliant wax, when chafing hands reduce
The former mass to form, and frame for use.
He would believe, but yet is still in pain,
And tries his argument of sense again,
Presses the pulse, and feels the leaping vein:
Convinced, o’erjoy’d, his studied thanks and praise,
To her who made the miracle, he pays:
Then lips to lips he join’d; now freed from fear,
He found the savour of the kiss sincere.
At this the waken’d image oped her eyes,
And view’d at once the light and lover with surprise.
The goddess, present at the match she made,
So bless’d the bed, such fruitfulness convey’d,
That ere ten months had sharpen’d either horn,
To crown their bliss, a lovely boy was born:
Paphos his name, who, grown to manhood, wall’d
The city Paphos, from the founder call’d.

For Cytherea’s lips while Cupid press’d,
He with a heedless arrow razed her breast:
The goddess felt it, and, with fury stung,
The wanton mischief from her bosom flung:
Yet thought at first the danger slight; but found
The dart too faithful, and too deep the wound.
Fired with a mortal beauty, she disdains
To haunt the Idalian mount or Phrygian plains:
She seeks not Cnidos, nor her Paphian shrines
Nor Amathus, that teems with brazen mines:
Ev’n heaven itself, with all its sweets unsought,
Adonis far a sweeter heaven is thought:
On him she hangs, and fonds with ev’ry art,
And never, never knows from him to part.
She whose soft limbs had only been display’d
On rosy beds, beneath the myrtle shade,
Whose pleasing care was to improve each grace,
And add more charms to an unrivall’d face,
Now buskin’d, like the virgin huntress, goes
Through woods, and pathless wilds, and mountain snows:
With her own tuneful voice she joys to cheer
The panting hounds, that chase the flying deer:
She runs the labyrinth of fearful hares;
But fearless beasts and dangerous prey forbears;
Hunts not the grinning wolf or foamy boar,
And trembles at the lion’s hungry roar.
Thee too, Adonis, with a lover’s care,
She warns, if warn’d, thou wouldst avoid the snare:
“To furious animals advance not nigh;
Ply those that follow, follow those that fly;
’Tis chance alone must the survivors save,
Whene’er brave spirits will attempt the brave.
Oh, lovely youth! in harmless sports delight;
Provoke not beasts, which, arm’d by nature, fight:
For me, if not thyself, vouchsafe to fear;
Let not thy thirst of glory cost me dear.
Boars know not how to spare a blooming age,
No sparkling eyes can soothe the lion’s rage:
Nor all thy charms a savage breast can move,
Which have so deeply touch’d the queen of love.
When bristled boars from beaten thickets spring,
In grinded tusks a thunderbolt they bring:
The daring hunters lions roused devour;
Vast is their fury, and as vast their power:
Cursed be their tawny race: if thou wouldst hear
What kindled thus my hate, then lend an ear;
The wondrous tale I will to thee unfold,
How the fell monsters rose from crimes of old:
But by long toils I faint. See! wide display’d,
A grateful poplar courts us with a shade;
The grassy turf, beneath, so verdant shows,
We may secure delightfully repose:

“Perhaps thou mayst have heard a virgin’s name,
Who still in swiftness swiftest youths o’ercame.
Wondrous, that female weakness should outdo
A manly strength; the wonder yet is true
’Twas doubtful if her triumphs in the field
Did to her form’s triumphant glories yield;
Whether her face could with more ease decoy
A crowd of lovers, or her feet destroy:
For once Apollo she implored to show
If courteous fates a consort would allow.
‘A consort brings thy ruin,’ he replied:
‘Oh learn to want the pleasures of a bride!
Nor shalt thou want them to thy wretched cost,
And Atalanta living shall be lost.’
With such a rueful fate the affrighted maid
Sought green recesses in the woodland glade;
Nor signing suitors her resolves could move;
She bade them show their speed, to show their love.
He only who could conquer in the race
Might hope the conquer’d virgin to embrace;
While he whose tardy feet had lagg’d behind,
Was doom’d the sad reward of death to find.
Though great the prize, yet rigid the decree;
But blind with beauty, who can rigour see?
Ev’n on these laws the fair they rashly sought,
And danger in excess of love forgot.

“There sat Hippomenes, prepared to blame
In lovers such extravagance of flame.
‘And must,’ he said, ‘the blessings of a wife
Be dearly purchased by a risk of life?’
But when he saw the wonders of her face,
And her limbs naked, springing to the race,
Her limbs, as exquisitely turned as mine,
Or, if a woman thou, might vie with thine,
With lifted hands, he cried, ‘Forgive the tongue
Which durst, ye youths, your well-timed courage wrong:
I knew not that the nymph for whom you strove
Deserved the unbounded transports of your love.’
He saw, admired, and thus her spotless frame
He praised, and praising, kindled his own flame.
A rival now to all the youths who run,
Envious, he fears they should not be undone.
‘But why,’ reflects he, ‘idly thus is shown
The fate of others, yet untried my own?
The coward must not on love’s aid depend;
The god was ever to the bold a friend.’
Meantime the virgin flies, or seems to fly,
Swift as a Scythian arrow cleaves the sky:
Still more and more the youth her charms admires:
The race itself to exalt her charms conspires.
The golden pinions, which her feet adorn,
In wanton flutterings by the winds are borne:
Down from her head the long fair tresses flow,
And sport with lovely negligence below:
The waving ribbons, which her buskins tie,
Her snowy skin with waving purple die;
As crimson veils in palaces display’d,
To the white marble lend a blushing shade.
Nor long he gazed, yet while he gazed, she gain’d
The goal, and the victorious wreath obtain’d.
The vanquish’d sigh, and, as the law decreed,
Pay the dire forfeit, and prepare to bleed.

“Then rose Hippomenes, not yet afraid,
And fix’d his eyes full on the beauteous maid.
‘Where is,’ he cried, ‘the mighty conquest won,
To distance those who want the nerves to run?
Here prove superior strength; nor shall it be
Thy loss of glory, if excell’d by me.
High my descent; near Neptune I aspire,
For Neptune was grand parent to my sire:
From that great god the fourth myself I trace,
Nor sink my virtues yet beneath my race.
Thou from Hippomenes, o’ercome, mayst claim
An envied triumph, and a deathless fame.’

“While thus the youth the virgin power defies,
Silent she views him still with softer eyes:
Thoughts in her breast a doubtful strife begin:
If ’tis not happier now to lose than win.
‘What god, a foe to beauty, would destroy
The promised ripeness of this blooming boy?
With his life’s danger does he seek my bed?
Scarce am I half so greatly worth,’ she said.
‘Nor has his beauty moved my breast to love;
And yet, I own, such beauty well might move;
’Tis not his charms, ’tis pity would engage
My soul to spare the greenness of his age.
What, that heroic courage fires his breast,
And shines through brave disdain of fate confess’d?
What, that his patronage by close degrees
Springs from the imperial ruler of the seas?
Then add the love, which bids him undertake
The race, and dare to perish for my sake.
Of bloody nuptials, heedless youth, beware!
Fly, timely fly, from a too barb’rous fair.
At pleasure choose: thy love will be repaid
By a less foolish and more beauteous maid.
But why this tenderness, before unknown?
Why beats and pants my breast for him alone?
His eyes have seen his numerous rivals yield;
Let him too share the rigour of the field,
Since, by their fates untaught, his own he courts,
And thus with ruin insolently sports.
Yet for what crime shall he his death receive?
Is it a crime with me to wish to live?
Shall his kind passion his destruction prove?
Is this the fatal recompense of love?
So fair a youth destroy’d, would conquest shame,
And nymphs eternally detest my fame.
Still why should nymphs my guiltless fame upbraid?
Did I the fond adventurer persuade?
Alas! I wish thou wouldst the course decline,
Or that my swiftness was excell’d by thine.
See what a virgin’s bloom adorns the boy!
Why wilt thou run, and why thyself destroy?
Hippomenes! oh that I ne’er had been
By those bright eyes unfortunately seen!
Ah! tempt not thus a swift untimely fate;
Thy life is worthy of the longest date.’

“Thus she disclosed the woman’s secret heart,
Young, innocent, and new to Cupid’s dart.
Her thoughts, her words, her actions, wildy rove,
With love she burns, yet knows not that ’tis love.

“Her royal sire now with the murm’ring crowd.
Demands the race impatiently aloud.
Hippomenes then with true fervour pray’d:
‘My bold attempt let Venus kindly aid:
By her sweet power I felt this amorous fire;
Still may she succour whom she did inspire.’
A soft, unenvious wind, with speedy care,
Wafted to heaven the lover’s tender prayer.
Pity, I own, soon gain’d the wish’d consent,
And all the assistance he implored I lent.
The Cyprian lands, though rich, in richness yield
To that surnamed the Tamasenian field:
That field of old was added to my shrine,
And its choice products consecrated mine:
A tree there stands, full glorious to behold,
Gold are the leaves, the crackling branches gold,
It chanced, three apples in my hands I bore,
Which newly from the tree I sportive tore;
Seen by the youth alone, to him I brought
The fruit, and when and how to use it taught.
The signal sounding by the king’s command,
Both start at once, and sweep the imprinted sand:
So swiftly moved their feet, they might with ease,
Scarce moisten’d, skim along the glassy seas;
Or, with a wondrous levity be borne
O’er yellow harvests of unbending corn.
Now favouring peals resound from every part,
Spirit the youth, and fire his fainting heart.
‘Hippomenes!’ they cried, ‘thy life preserve,
Intensely labour, and stretch every nerve:
Base fear alone can baffle thy design;
Shoot boldly onward, and the gaol is thine.’
’Tis doubtful whether shouts like these convey’d
More pleasures to the youth or to the maid.
When a long distance oft she could have gain’d,
She check’d her swiftness, and her feet restrain’d:
She sigh’d, and dwelt, and languish’d, on his face,
Then with unwilling speed pursued the race.
O’erspent with heat, his breath he faintly drew,
Parch’d was his mouth, nor yet the gaol in view,
And the first apple on the plain he threw.
The nymph stopp’d sudden at the unusual sight,
Struck with the fruit so beautifully bright.
Aside she starts, the wonder to behold,
And eager stoops to catch the rolling gold.
The observant youth pass’d by, and scour’d along,
While peals of joy rung from the applauding throng.
Unkindly she corrects the short delay,
And to redeem the time fleets swift away,
Swift as the lightning, or the northern wind,
And far she leaves the panting youth behind.
Again he strives the flying nymph to hold
With the temptation of the second gold:
The bright temptation fruitlessly was toss’d
So soon, alas! she won the distance lost.
Now but a little interval of space
Remain’d for the decision of the race.
‘Fair author of the precious gift,’ he said,
‘Be thou, oh goddess, author of my aid!’
Then of the shining fruit the last he drew,
And with his full-collected vigour threw;
The virgin still the longer to detain,
Threw not directly, but across the plain.
She seem’d a while perplex’d in dubious thought,
If the far distant apple should be sought:
I lured her backward mind to seize the bait,
And to the massy gold gave double weight:
My favour to my votary was show’d;
Her speed I lessen’d, and increased her load.
But lest, though long, the rapid race he run,
Before my longer, tedious tale is done,
The youth the gaol, and so the virgin, won.

“Might I, Adonis, now not hope to see
His grateful thanks pour’d out for victory?
His pious incense on my altars laid?
But he nor grateful thanks, nor incense paid.
Enraged, I vow’d, that with the youth the fair,
For his contempt, should my keen vengeance share:
That future lovers might my power revere,
And, from their sad examples, learn to fear.
The silent fanes, the sanctified abodes,
Of Cybele, great mother of the gods,
Raised by Echion in a lonely wood,
And full of brown, religious horror stood:
By a long painful Journey faint, they chose
Their weary limbs here secret to repose.
But soon my power inflamed the lustful boy;
Careless of rest, he sought untimely joy.
A hallow’d gloomy cave, with moss o’ergrown,
The temple join’d, of native pumice stone,
Where antique images by priests were kept,
And wooden deities securely slept;
Thither the rash Hippomenes retires,
And gives a loose to all his wild desires,
And the chaste cell pollutes with wanton fires.
The sacred statues trembled with surprise;
The towery goddess, blushing, veil’d her eyes,
And the vile pair to Stygian sounds had sent;
But unrevengeful seem’d that punishment:
A heavier doom such black profaneness draws⁠—
Their taper fingers turn to crooked paws:
No more their necks the smoothness can retain,
Now cover’d sudden with a yellow mane:
Arms change to legs: each finds the hard’ning breast
Of rage unknown, and wond’rous strength possess’d:
Their alter’d looks with fury grim appear;
And on the ground their brushing tails they bear:
They haunt the woods: their voices, which before
Were musically sweet, now hoarsely roar.
Hence lions, dreadful to the lab’ring swains,
Are tamed by Cybele, and curb’d with reins,
And humbly draw her car along the plains.
‘But thou, Adonis, my delightful care,
Of these, and beasts as fierce as these, beware!
The savage, which not shuns thee, timely shun;
For by rash prowess shouldst thou be undone,
A double ruin is contain’d in one.’ ”
Thus cautious Venus school’d her favourite boy;
But youthful heat all cautions will destroy.
His sprightly soul beyond grave counsel flies,
While with yoked swans the goddess cuts the skies
His faithful hounds, led by the tainted wind,
Lodged in thick coverts chanced a boar to find.
The callow hero show’d a manly heart,
And pierced the savage with a sidelong dart:
The flying savage, wounded, turn’d again,
Wrench’d out the gory dart, and foam’d with pain.
The trembling boy by flight his safety sought,
And now recall’d the lore which Venus taught:
But now, too late, to fly the boar he strove,
Who in the groin his tusks impetuous drove:
On the discolour’d grass Adonis lay⁠—
The monster trampling o’er his beauteous prey.

Fair Cytherea, Cyprus scarce in view,
Heard from afar his groans, and own’d them true,
And turn’d her snowy swans, and backward flew.
But as she saw him gasp his latest breath,
And quivering agonize in pangs of death,
Down with swift flight she plunged, nor rage forbore,
At once her garments and her hair she tore:
With cruel blows she beat her guiltless breast,
The fates upbraided, and her love confess’d.
“Nor shall they yet,” she cried, “the whole devour,
With uncontroll’d inexorable power.
For thee, lost youth, my tears and restless pain
Shall in immortal monuments remain:
With solemn pomp, in annual rites return’d,
Be thou for ever, my Adonis, mourn’d.
Could Pluto’s queen with jealous fury storm,
And Menthe to a fragrant herb transform?
Yet dares not Venus with a change surprise,
And in a flower bid her fallen hero rise?”
Then on the blood sweet nectar she bestows⁠—
The scented blood in little bubbles rose;
Little as rainy drops, which fluttering fly,
Borne by the winds, along a lowering sky.
Short time ensued, till where the blood was shed,
A flower began to rear its purple head;
Such as on Punic apples is reveal’d,
Or in the filmy rind but half conceal’d.
Still here the fate of lovely forms we see,
So sudden fades the sweet anemone:
The feeble stems, to stormy blasts a prey,
Their sickly beauties droop, and pine away:
The winds forbid the flowers to flourish long,
Which, owe to winds their names in Grecian song.