Now say, self-tortur'd Nymph, can you compare
Our Griefs as equal, or in Justice dare?
I saw besides the darksome Realms of Woe,
And bath'd my Wounds in smoking Streams below.
There I had staid, nor second Life injoy'd,
But Pœan's Son his wondrous Art imploy'd.
To Light restor'd, by medicinal Skill,
In spight of Fate, and rigid Pluto's Will,
Th' invidious Object to preserve from View,
A misty Cloud around me Cynthia threw;
And lest my Sight should stir my Foes to Rage,
She stamp'd my Village with the Marks of Age.
My former Hue was chang'd, and for it shown
A Set of Features, and a Face unknown.
A while the Goddess stood in doubt, or Crete,
Or Delos' Isle, to chuse for my Retreat.
Delos, and Crete refus'd, this Wood she chose,
Bad me my former luckless Name depose,
Which kept alive the Mem'ry of my Woes;
Then said, Immortal Life be thine; and thou,
Hippolytus once call'd, be Virbius now.
Here then a God, but of th' inferior Race,
I serve my Goddess, and attend her Chace.
Egeria transform'd to a Fountain.
But others Woes were useless to appease
Egeria's Grief, or set her Mind at ease.
Beneath the Hill, all Comfortless she laid,
The drooping Tears her Eyes incessant shed,
'Till pitying Phœbe eas'd her pious Woe,
Thaw'd to a Spring, whose Streams for ever flow,
The Nymphs, and Virbius, like Amazement fill'd,
As seiz'd the Swains, who Tyrrhene Furrows till'd;
When heaving up, a Clod was seen to roll,
Umouch'd, self-mov'd, and big with human Soul.
