Now told he of the stones by Pyrrha cast,
Of Saturn's realm, of birds of Caucasus
And of Prometheus' theft—yet more he sang
How the fair youth of Argos, left behind
Beside the fountain, was in vain invoked
By sailors calling Hylas, Hylas! till
The shore was made to echo with the name.
He tries to comfort the ill-fated Pasiphæ,
Whose mind was turned to fancies base and wild.
Ah, hapless maid, of reason sweet bereft!
And sent to wander on the mountain drear,
Thy only friends the scattered herds of kine—
Ah, hapless maid! trod down by evil tongues!
The snow-white steer rests on the soft blue bloom
Of hyacinths, and chews the freshest grass,
Or follows one amongst the numerous herd.
Ye Nymphs of Crete, now close the forest paths,
Perchance his vagrant foot-prints we may see;
Or haply, they may lure him with green food,
Or he may follow heifers to their stalls.
—Now sings the bard of Atalanta; charmed
With golden apples of Hesperides—
Next tells how Phæton's sisters were transformed
To poplars—clothed with moss and bitter bark;
Then of the straying Gallus, by the streams
Sacred to Muses; how one led his steps
To the Aonian hills, and there rose up
The whole of Phœbus' choir, to honour him
And Linus, shepherd of grand song, his locks
29
