Though various features did the sisters grace,
A sister’s likeness was in every face.
On earth a different landscape courts the eyes:
Men, towns, and beasts, in distant prospects rise,
And nymphs, and streams, and woods, and rural deities.
O’er all, the heaven’s refulgent image shines:
On either gate were six engraven signs.
Here Phaeton, still gaining on the ascent,
To his suspected father’s palace went,
Till, pressing forward through the bright abode,
He saw at distance the illustrious god:
He saw at distance, or the dazzling light
Had flash’d too strongly on his aching sight.
The god sits high, exalted on a throne
Of blazing gems, with purple garments on:
The Hours in order ranged on either hand,
And Days, and Months, and Years, and Ages, stand.
Here Spring appears, with flowery chaplets bound;
Here Summer, in her wheaten garland crown’d;
Here Autumn the rich trodden grapes besmear,
And hoary Winter shivers in the rear.
Phoebus beheld the youth from off his throne;
That eye which looks on all was fixed on one:
He saw the boy’s confusion in his face,
Surprised at all the wonders of the place,
And cries aloud, “What wants my son? for know
My son thou art, and I must call thee so.”
“Light of the world,” the trembling youth replies,
“Illustrious parent! since you don’t despise
The parent’s name, some certain token give,
That I may Clymene’s proud boast believe,
Nor longer under false reproaches grieve.”
The tender sire was touch’d with what he said,
And flung the blaze of glories from his head,
And bade the youth advance. “My son,” said he,
“Come to thy father’s arms! for Clymene
Has told thee true: a parent’s name I own,
And deem thee worthy to be call’d my son.
As a sure proof, make some request, and I,
Whate’er it be, with that request comply:
By Styx I swear, whose waves are hid in night,
And roll impervious to my piercing sight.”
The youth, transported, asks, without delay,
To guide the sun’s bright chariot for a day.
The god repented of the oath he took;
For anguish thrice lis radiant head he shook.
“My son,” said he, “some other proof require;
Rash was my promise, rash is thy desire.
I’d fain deny this wish which thou hast made,
Or, what I can’t deny, would fain dissuade.
Too vast and hazardous the task appears,
Nor suited to thy strength, nor to thy years.
Thy lot is mortal, but thy wishes fly
Beyond the province of mortality.
There is not one of all the gods that dares
(However skill’d in other great affairs)
To mount the burning axletree but I;
Not Jove himself, the ruler of the sky,
That hurls the three-fork’d thunder from above,
Dares try his strength: yet who so strong as Jove?
The steeds climb up the first ascent with pain,
And when the middle firmament they gain,
If downwards from the heavens my head I bow,
And see the earth and ocean hang below,
Ev’n I am seized with horror and affright,
And my own heart misgives me at the sight.
A mighty downfall steeps the evening stage;
And steady reins must curb the horses’ rage:
Tethys herself has fear’d to see me driven
Down headlong from the precipice of heaven.
Besides, consider what impetuous force
Turns stars and planets in a different course:
I steer against their motions; nor am I
Borne back by all the current of the sky.
But how could you resist the orbs that roll
In adverse whirls, and stem the rapid pole?
But you, perhaps, may hope for pleasing woods,
And stately domes, and cities fill’d with gods;
While through a thousand snares your progress lies,
Where forms of starry monsters stock the skies:
For, should you hit the doubtful way aright,
The bull, with stooping horns, stands opposite;
Next him, the bright Haemonian bow is strung;
And next, the lion’s grinning visage hung:
The scorpion’s claws here clasp a wide extent;
And here the crab’s in lesser clasps are bent.
Nor would you find it easy to compose
The mettled steeds, when from their nostrils flows
The scorching fire that in their entrails glows.
Ev’n I their headstrong fury scarce restrain,
When they grow warm and restiff to the rein.
Let not my son a fatal gift require;
But, O! in time, recall your rash desire:
You ask a gift that may your parent tell;
Let these my fears your parentage reveal,
And learn a father from a father’s care:
Look on my face; or if my heart lay bare,
Could you but look, you’d read the father there.
Choose out a gift, from seas, or earth, or skies;
For open to your wish all nature lies;
Only decline this one unequal task,
For ’tis a mischief, not a gift, you ask.
You ask a real mischief, Phaeton:
Nay, hang not thus about my neck, my son.
I grant your wish, and Styx has heard my voice;
Choose what you will, but make a wiser choice.”
Thus did the god the unwary youth advise;
But he still longs to travel through the skies;
When the fond father (for in vain he pleads)
At length to the Vulcanian chariot leads.
A golden axle did the work uphold,
Gold was the beam, the wheels were orb’d with gold;
The spokes in rows of silver pleased the sight;
The seat with parti-colour’d gems was bright:
Apollo shined amid the glare of light.
The youth with secret joy the work surveys,
When now the moon disclosed her purple rays:
The stars were fled, for Lucifer had chased
The stars away, and fled himself at last.
Soon as the father saw the rosy morn,
And the moon shining with a blunter horn,
He bid the nimble Hours, without delay,
Bring forth the steeds: the nimble Hours obey.
From their full racks the generous steeds retire,
Dropping ambrosial foams, and snorting fire.
Still anxious for his son, the god of day,
To make him proof against the burning ray,
His temples with celestial ointment wet,
Of sovereign virtue, to repel the heat;
Then fix’d the beamy circle on his head,
And fetch’d a deep foreboding sigh, and said:
“Take this at least, this last advice, my son:
Keep a stiff rein, and move but gently on:
The coursers of themselves will run too fast;
Your art must be to moderate their haste.
Drive them not on directly through the skies,
But where the zodiac’s winding circle lies,
Along the midmost zone; but sally forth,
Nor to the distant south, nor stormy north.
The horses’ hoofs a beaten track will show;
But neither mount too high, nor sink too low.
That no new fires or heaven or earth infest,
Keep the mid way: the middle way is best:
Nor where, in radiant folds,
