The fleshy Colour in his Body fades,
And a green Tincture all his Limbs invades;
From his fair Head, where curling Locks late hung,
A horrid Bush with bristled Branches sprung.
Which stiffning by Degrees, its Stem extends,
Till to the starry Skies the Spire ascends.
Apollo sad look'd on, and sighing, cry'd,
Then, be for ever, what thy Pray'r imply'd:
Bemoan'd by me, in others Grief excite;
And still preside at ev'ry Fun'ral Rite.
Continu'd by Mr. Croxall.
Thus the sweet Artist in a wondrous Shade
Of verdant Trees, which Harmony had made,
Encircled sate, with his own Triumphs crown'd,
Of listning Birds, and Savages around.
Again the trembling Strings he dext'rous tries,
Again from Discord makes soft Musick rise.
Then tunes his Voice: O Muse, from whom I sprung,
Jove be my Theme, and thou inspire my Song.
To Jove my grateful Voice I oft have rais'd,
Oft his Almighty Pow'r with Pleasure prais'd.
I sung the Giants in a solemn Strain,
Blasted, and Thunder-struck on Phlegra's Plain.
Now be my Lyre in softer Accents mov'd,
To sing of blooming Boys by Gods belov'd;
And to relate what Virgins, void of Shame,
Have suffer'd Vengeance for a lawless Flame.
The King of Gods once felt the burning Joy,
And sigh'd for lovely Ganimede of Troy:
Long was he puzzled to assume a Shape
Most fit, and expeditious for the Rape;
A Bird's was proper, yet he scorns to wear
Any but that which might his Thunder bear.
