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