Amid the throng of this promiscuous wood,
With pointed top, the taper cypress stood,
A tree, which once a youth, and heavenly fair,
Was of that deity the darling care,
Whose hand adapts, with equal skill, the strings
To bows with which he kills, and harps to which he sings.
For heretofore, a mighty stag was bred,
Which on the fertile fields of Caea fed;
In shape and size he all his kind excell’d,
And to Carthaean nymphs was sacred held;
His beamy head, with branches high display’d,
Afforded to itself an ample shade;
His horns were gilt, and his smooth neck was graced
With silver collars thick with gems enchased;
A silver boss upon his forehead hung,
And brazen pendants in his ear-rings rung;
Frequenting houses he familiar grew,
And learn’d, by custom, nature to subdue,
Till by degrees, of fear and wildness broke,
Ev’n stranger hands his proffer’d neck might stroke.
Much was the beast by Caea’s youth caress’d,
But thou, sweet Cyparissus, lovedst him best;
By thee, to pastures fresh, he oft was led,
By thee oft water’d at the fountain’s head;
His horns with garlands, now, by thee were tied,
And, now, thou on his back wouldst wanton ride;
Now here, now there, wouldst bound along the plains,
Ruling his tender mouth with purple reins.
’Twas when the summer sun, at noon of day,
Through glowing Cancer shot his burning ray,
’Twas then, the fav’rite stag, in cool retreat,
Had sought a shelter from the scorching heat:
Along the grass his weary limbs he laid,
Inhaling freshness, from the breezy shade,
When Cyparissus, with his pointed dart,
Unknowing, pierced him to the panting heart;
But when the youth, surprised, his error found,
And saw him dying of the cruel wound,
Himself he would have slain through desperate grief;
What said not Phoebus, that might yield relief:
To cease his mourning he the boy desired,
Or mourn no more than such a loss required;
But ho incessant grieved. At length address’d
To the superior powers a last request;
Praying, in expiation of his crime,
Thenceforth to mourn to all succeeding time.
And now of blood exhausted he appears,
Drain’d by a torrent of continual tears;
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, stiffening by degrees, its stem extends,
Till to the starry skies the spire ascends.
Apollo sad look’d on, and sighing, cried:
“Then, be for ever what thy prayer implied,
Bemoan’d by me, in others grief excite,
And still preside at every funeral rite.”
Thus the sweet artist in a wondrous shade
Of verdant trees, which harmony had made,
Encircled sat, with his own triumphs crown’d,
Of listening birds and savages around.
Again the trembling strings he dext’rous tries,
Again from discord makes soft music rise;
Then tunes his voice: “Oh muse, from whom I sprung,
Jove be my theme, and thou inspire my song:
To Jove ray grateful voice I oft have raised,
Oft his almighty power with pleasure praised.
I sung the giants in a solemn strain,
Blasted and thunderstruck on Phlegra’s plain.
Now be my lyre in softer accents moved,
To sing of blooming boys by gods beloved,
And to relate what virgins, void of shame,
Have suffer’d vengeance for a lawless flame.”
Hyacinthus Transformed Into a Flower
A beautiful youth, named Hyacinthus, is accidentally killed while playing at quoits with Apollo, who changes his blood into a flower hearing the name of his deceased friend.
Phoebus 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 pass’d, and vernal breezes soothe the plains,
From the green turf a purple flower you rise,
And with your fragrant breath perfume the skies.
You, when alive, were Phoebus’ darling boy;
In you he placed his hopes 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 augments his flame.
The midday sun now shone with equal light
Between the past and the succeeding light;
They strip, then, smooth’d with suppling oil, essay
To pitch the rounded quoit, their wonted play.
A well-poised disk first hasty Phoebus threw;
It cleft the air, and whistled as it flew;
It reach’d the mark, a most surprising length,
Which spoke an equal share of art and strength.
Scarce was it fallen, when, with too eager hand,
Young Hyacinth ran to snatch it from the sand;
But the curs’d orb, which met a stony soil,
Flew in his face with violent recoil.
Both faint, both pale and breathless, now appear,
The boy with pain, the anxious god with fear.
He ran, and raised him bleeding from the ground,
Chafes his cold limbs, and wipes the fatal wound;
Then herbs of noblest juice in vain applies;
The wound is mortal, and his skill defies.
As in a water’d garden’s blooming walk,
When some rude hand has bruised its tender stalk,
A fading lily droops its languid head,
And bends to earth, its life and beauty fled;
So Hyacinth, with head reclined, decays,
And, sickening, now no more his charms displays.
“Oh, thou art gone, my boy,” Apollo cried,
“Defrauded of thy youth in all its pride!
Thou, once my joy, art all my sorrow now;
And to my guilty hand my grief I owe.
Yet from myself I might the fault remove,
Unless to sport and play a fault should prove,
Oh could I for thee, or but with thee, die!
But cruel fates to me that power deny:
Yet on my tongue thou shalt for ever dwell;
Thy name my lyre shall sound, my verse shall tell;
And to a flower transform’d, unheard of yet,
Stamp’d on thy leaves, my cries thou shalt repeat:
The time shall come, prophetic I foreknow,
When, join’d to thee, a mighty chief8 shall grow,
And with my plaints his name thy leaf shall show.”
While Phoebus thus the laws of fate reveal’d,
Behold, the blood which stain’d the verdant field
Is blood no longer; but a flower full blown,
Far brighter than the Tyrian scarlet, shone:
A lily’s form it took; its purple hue
Was all that made a difference to the view:
Nor stopp’d he here: the god upon its leaves
The sad expression of his sorrow weaves;
And to this hour the mournful purple wears
Ai, Ai, inscribed in funeral characters.
Nor are the Spartans, who so much are famed
For virtue, of their
