Down with his masquerading Wings he flies,
And bears the little Trojan to the Skies;
Where now, in Robes of heav'nly Purple drest,
He serves the Nectar at th' Almighty's Feast.
To slighted Juno an unwelcome Guest.
Hyacinthus transform'd into a Flower
By Mr. Ozell.
Phœbus for thee too, Hyacinth, design'd
A Place among the Gods, had Fate been kind:
Yet this he gave; as oft as wintry Rains
Are past, and vernal Breezes sooth the Plains,
From the green Turf a purple Flow'r you rise,
And with your fragrant Breath perfume the Skies,
You when alive were Phœbus' darling Boy;
In you he plac'd his Heav'n, and fix'd his Joy:
Their God the Delphic Priests consult in vain;
Eurotas now he loves, and Sparta's Plain:
His Hands the use of Bow, and Harp forget,
And hold the Dogs, or bear the corded Net;
O'er hanging Cliffs swift he pursues the Game;
Each Hour his Pleasure, each Day augments his Flame.
The mid-day Sun now shone with equal Light
Between the past, and the succeeding Night;
They strip, then, smooth'd with suppling Oyl, essay
To pitch the rounded Quoit, their wonted Play:
A well pois'd Disk first hasty Phœbus threw,
It cleft the Air, and whistled as it flew;
It reach'd the Mark, a most surprizing Length;
Which spoke an equal Share of Art, and Strength.
Scarce was it fall'n, when with too eager Hand
Young Hyacinth ran to snatch it from the Sand;
But the curst Orb, which met a stony Soil,
Flew in his Face with violent Recoil.
Both
