Hyacinthus transform'd into a Flower



10:256 Phoebus for thee too, Hyacinth, design'd
10:257 A place among the Gods, had Fate been kind:
10:258 Yet this he gave; as oft as wintry rains
10:259 Are past, and vernal breezes sooth the plains,
10:260 From the green turf a purple flow'r you rise,
10:261 And with your fragrant breath perfume the skies.

10:262 You when alive were Phoebus' darling boy;
10:263 In you he plac'd his Heav'n, and fix'd his joy:
10:264 Their God the Delphic priests consult in vain;
10:265 Eurotas now he loves, and Sparta's plain:
10:266 His hands the use of bow and harp forget,
10:267 And hold the dogs, or bear the corded net;
10:268 O'er hanging cliffs swift he pursues the game;
10:269 Each hour his pleasure, each augments his flame.

10:270 The mid-day sun now shone with equal light
10:271 Between the past, and the succeeding night;
10:272 They strip, then, smooth'd with suppling oyl, essay
10:273 To pitch the rounded quoit, their wonted play:
10:274 A well-pois'd disk first hasty Phoebus threw,
10:275 It cleft the air, and whistled as it flew;
10:276 It reach'd the mark, a most surprizing length;
10:277 Which spoke an equal share of art, and strength.
10:278 Scarce was it fall'n, when with too eager hand
10:279 Young Hyacinth ran to snatch it from the sand;
10:280 But the curst orb, which met a stony soil,
10:281 Flew in his face with violent recoil.
10:282 Both faint, both pale, and breathless now appear,
10:283 The boy with pain, the am'rous God with fear.
10:284 He ran, and rais'd him bleeding from the ground,
10:285 Chafes his cold limbs, and wipes the fatal wound:
10:286 Then herbs of noblest juice in vain applies;
10:287 The wound is mortal, and his skill defies.

10:288 As in a water'd garden's blooming walk,
10:289 When some rude hand has bruis'd its tender stalk,
10:290 A fading lilly droops its languid head,
10:291 And bends to earth, its life, and beauty fled:
10:292 So Hyacinth, with head reclin'd, decays,
10:293 And, sickning, now no more his charms displays.

10:294 O thou art gone, my boy, Apollo cry'd,
10:295 Defrauded of thy youth in all its pride!
10:296 Thou, once my joy, art all my sorrow now;
10:297 And to my guilty hand my grief I owe.
10:298 Yet from my self I might the fault remove,
10:299 Unless to sport, and play, a fault should prove,
10:300 Unless it too were call'd a fault to love.
10:301 Oh cou'd I for thee, or but with thee, dye!
10:302 But cruel Fates to me that pow'r deny.
10:303 Yet on my tongue thou shalt for ever dwell;
10:304 Thy name my lyre shall sound, my verse shall tell;
10:305 And to a flow'r transform'd, unheard-of yet,
10:306 Stamp'd on thy leaves my cries thou shalt repeat.
10:307 The time shall come, prophetick I foreknow,
10:308 When, joyn'd to thee, a mighty chief shall grow,
10:309 And with my plaints his name thy leaf shall show.

10:310 While Phoebus thus the laws of Fate reveal'd,
10:311 Behold, the blood which stain'd the verdant field,
10:312 Is blood no longer; but a flow'r full blown,
10:313 Far brighter than the Tyrian scarlet shone.
10:314 A lilly's form it took; its purple hue
10:315 Was all that made a diff'rence to the view,
10:316 Nor stop'd he here; the God upon its leaves
10:317 The sad expression of his sorrow weaves;
10:318 And to this hour the mournful purple wears
10:319 Ai, Ai, inscrib'd in funeral characters.
10:320 Nor are the Spartans, who so much are fam'd
10:321 For virtue, of their Hyacinth asham'd;
10:322 But still with pompous woe, and solemn state,
10:323 The Hyacinthian feasts they yearly celebrate