Now pour the wine; and in your tuneful lays
Once more refound the great Apollo's praise.

Oh father Phoebus! whether Lycia's coaft
And fnowy mountains, thy bright presence boast;
Whether to sweet Caftalia thou repair,
And bathe in filver dews thy yellow hair;
Or pleas'd to find fair Delos float no more,
Delight in Cynthus, and the fhady shore;
Or chufe thy feat in Ilion's proud abodes,
The shining structures rais'd by lab'ring Gods:
By thee the bow and mortal shafts are born;
Eternal charms thy blooming youth adorn :
Skill'd in the laws of fecret fate above,
And the dark counfels of almighty Jove,
"Tis thine the feeds of future war to know,
The change of Sceptres, and impending woe;
When direful meteors spread thro' glowing air
Long trails of light, and shake their blazing hair.
Thy rage the Phrygian felt, who durst aspire
T'excel the mufic of thy heav'nly lyre;
Thy shafts aveng'd lewd Tityus' guilty flame,
Th' immortal victim of thy mother's fame;
Thy hand flew Python, and the dame who lost
Her num'rous offspring for a fatal boast.
In Phlegyas' doom thy just revenge appears,
Condemn'd to furies and eternal fears;

He views his food, but dreads, with lifted eye, The mould'ring rock, that trembles from on high, Propitious hear our pray'r, O Pow'r divine! And on thy hofpitable Argos shine,

Whether the ftyle of Titan please thee more,
Whose purple rays th' Achaemenes adore;
Or great Ofiris, who first taught the swain
In Pharian fields to fow the golden grain;
Or Mitra, to whofe beams the Perfian bows,
And pays, in hollow rocks, his awful vows;
Mitra, whofe head the blaze of light adorns,
Who grafps the struggling heifer's lunar horns.

THE

FABLE

O F

DRYOPE.

From the NINTH BOOK of

OVID'S METAMORPHOSES.

SHE faid, and for her lost Galanthis fighs,
When the fair Confort of her son replies.
Since you a fervant's ravith'd form bemoan,
And kindly sigh for forrows not your own;
Let me (if tears and grief permit) relate
A nearer woe, a fifter's stranger fate.

No nymph of all Oechalia could compare
For beauteous form with Dryope the fair,
Her tender mother's only hope and pride,
(Myself the offspring of a second bride.)
This nymph compress'd by him who rules the day,
Whom Delphi and the Delian ifle obey,
Andraemon lov'd; and, bless'd in all those charms
That pleas'd a God, fucceeded to her arms.

A lake there was, with shelving banks around, Whofe verdant fummit fragrant myrtles crown'd,

Thefe fhades, unknowing of the fates, fhe fought,
And to the Naiads flow'ry garlands brought;
Her fmiling babe (a pleasing charge) she prest
Within her arms, and nourish'd at her breast.
Not diftant far, a wat'ry Lotos grows,

The fpring was new, and all the verdant boughs,
Adorn'd with bloffoms, promis'd fruits that vie
In glowing colours with the Tyrian dye:
Of thefe fhe crop'd to please her infant fon,
And I myself the fame rafh act had done:
But lo! I faw (as near her fide I flood)
The violated blossoms drop with blood.
Upon the tree I caft a frightful look;
The trembling tree with fudden horror fhook.
Lotis the nymph (if rural tales be true)
As from Priapus' lawlefs luft she flew,
Forfook her form; and fixing here became
A flow'ry plant, which still preserves her name.
This change unknown, astonish'd at the fight
My trembling fister strove to urge her flight:
And first the pardon of the nymphs implor'd,
And thofe offended fylvan pow'rs ador'd:
But when the backward would have fled, fhe found
Her ftiff'ning feet were rooted in the ground:
In vain to free her faften'd feet she strove,
And as the struggles, only moves above;
She feels th' encroaching bark around her grow
By quick degrees, and cover all below :
Surpriz'd at this, her trembling hand fhe heaves
To rend her hair; her hand is fill'd with leaves: