Page:Virgil - The Georgics, Thomas Nevile, 1767.djvu/119

 

At the stream's sacred source the sorrowing swain
Addrest his mother thus in plaintive strain.
Parent Cyrene! Parent! you, who haunt 375
This spring's deep bottom! why was I, who vaunt
Celestial lineage, (if, as you relate,
My Sire be Phœbus,) born the sport of Fate?
Ah! where is now a Parent's tender love!
Why was I taught to pant for joys above? 380
Lo! this poor pride of fragile life, the last
And painful produce of my labours past,
To many a trial due, ev'n while I boast
A Goddess-mother, to my hopes is lost.
Go! if thus weary of thy son's fair fame, 385
Go! blast my harvests, wrap my folds in flame,
Root up my thriving trees, the vast axe wield
At my young vines, and fire my planted field.

Beneath the channel of the stream profound
The Parent-goddess heard the wailing sound: 390
Circling her grot of Nymphs a busy train
Comb'd fleeces, tinctur'd with cerulean stain:
Here Xantho, and Ligea shril of tone,
Drymo, Phyllodoce, sit near the throne;
Down their white necks loose flow'd their glossy hair:
Spio, Cymodoce, Nesæe, there: 396

Her