What could, alas! the weeping mother do? From this to that with eager haste she flew, And kissed her sprouting daughters as they grew. She tears the bark that to each body cleaves, _50 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 increased, Closed on their faces, and their words suppressed. The new-made trees in tears of amber run, Which, hardened into value by the sun, Distil for ever on the streams below: _60 The limpid streams their radiant treasure show, Mixed in the sand; whence the rich drops conveyed, Shine in the dress of the bright Latian maid. THE TRANSFORMATION OF CYCNUS INTO A SWAN. Cycnus beheld the nymphs transformed, allied To their dead brother on the mortal side, In friendship and affection nearer bound; He left the cities and the realms he owned, 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 lessened, as he tried to speak, And issued through a long extended neck; _10 His hair transforms to down, his fingers mee 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 turned, Who, still remembering how his kinsman burned, To solitary pools and lakes retires, And loves the waters as opposed to fires. Meanwhile Apollo, in a gloomy shade (The native lustre of his brows decayed) _20 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 pined, Now warm resentments to his grief he joined, And now renounced his office to mankind. 'E'er since the birth of time,' said he, 'I've borne _30 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 deserved 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: _40 Jove too himself descending from his height, Excuses what had happened, and entreats, Majestically mixing prayers and threats. Prevailed upon, at length, again he took The harnessed steeds, that still with horror shook, And plies them with the lash, and whips them on,