And stretches out his neck, and pricks his ears; Rough is his skin, with sudden hairs o'ergrown, _60 His bosom pants with fears before unknown. Transformed at length, he flies away in haste, And wonders why he flies away so fast. But as by chance, within a neighbouring brook, He saw his branching horns and altered look, Wretched Actæon! in a doleful tone He tried to speak, but only gave a groan; And as he wept, within the watery glass He saw the big round drops, with silent pace, Run trickling down a savage hairy face. _70 What should he do? Or seek his old abodes, Or herd among the deer, and skulk in woods? Here shame dissuades him, there his fear prevails, And each by turns his aching heart assails. As he thus ponders, he behind him spies His opening hounds, and now he hears their cries: A generous pack, or to maintain the chase, Or snuff the vapour from the scented grass. He bounded off with fear, and swiftly ran O'er craggy mountains, and the flowery plain; _80 Through brakes and thickets forced his way, and flew Through many a ring, where once he did pursue. In vain he oft endeavoured to proclaim His new misfortune, and to tell his name; Nor voice nor words the brutal tongue supplies; From shouting men, and horns, and dogs he flies, Deafened and stunned with their promiscuous cries. When now the fleetest of the pack, that pressed Close at his heels, and sprung before the rest, Had fastened on him, straight another pair _90 Hung on his wounded haunch, and held him there, Till all the pack came up, and every hound Tore the sad huntsman, grovelling on the ground, Who now appeared but one continued wound. With dropping tears his bitter fate he moans, And fills the mountain with his dying groans. His servants with a piteous look he spies, And turns about his supplicating eyes. His servants, ignorant of what had chanced, With eager haste and joyful shouts advanced, _100 And called their lord Actæon to the game: He shook his head in answer to the name; He heard, but wished he had indeed been gone, Or only to have stood a looker-on. But, to his grief, he finds himself too near, And feels his ravenous dogs with fury tear Their wretched master, panting in a deer. THE BIRTH OF BACCHUS.