And a new sun to the new world arose; And mists, condensed to clouds, obscure the sky; And clouds, dissolved, the thirsty ground supply. The rising trees the lofty mountains grace; } The lofty mountains feed the savage race, } Yet few, and strangers, in the unpeopled place. } From thence the birth of man the song pursued, And how the world was lost, and how renewed; The reign of Saturn, and the golden age; Prometheus' theft, and Jove's avenging rage; The cries of Argonauts for Hylas drowned, With whose repeated name the shores resound; Then mourns the madness of the Cretan queen,-- Happy for her if herds had never been. What fury, wretched woman, seized thy breast? The maids of Argos, (though, with rage possessed, Their imitated lowings filled the grove,) Yet shunned the guilt of thy preposterous love, Nor sought the youthful husband of the herd, } Though labouring yokes on their own necks they feared, } And felt for budding horns on their smooth foreheads reared. } Ah, wretched queen! you range the pathless wood, While on a flowery bank he chews the cud, Or sleeps in shades, or through the forest roves, And roars with anguish for his absent loves. "Ye nymphs, with toils his forest-walk surround, And trace his wandering footsteps on the ground. But, ah! perhaps my passion he disdains, And courts the milky mothers of the plains. We search the ungrateful fugitive abroad, While they at home sustain his happy load." He sung the lover's fraud; the longing maid, With golden fruit, like all the sex, betrayed; The sisters mourning for their brother's loss; Their bodies hid in barks, and furred with moss; How each a rising alder now appears, And o'er the Po distils her gummy tears: Then sung, how Gallus, by a Muse's hand, Was led and welcomed to the sacred strand; The senate rising to salute their guest; And Linus thus their gratitude expressed:-- "Receive this present, by the Muses made, The pipe on which the Ascræan pastor played; With which of old he charmed the savage train, And called the mountain-ashes to the plain. Sing thou, on this, thy Phoebus; and the wood Where once his fane of Parian marble stood: On this his ancient oracles rehearse, And with new numbers grace the god of verse." Why should I sing the double Scylla's fate? The first by love transformed, the last by hate-- A beauteous maid above; but magic arts With barking dogs deformed her nether parts: What vengeance on the passing fleet she poured, The master frighted, and the mates devoured. Then ravished Philomel the song exprest; The crime revealed; the sisters' cruel feast: And how in fields the lapwing Tereus reigns,