Within a chest, of twining osiers made.
The daughters of King Cecrops undertook
To guard the chest, commanded not to look
On what was hid within. I stood to see
The charge obeyed, perched on a neighbouring tree.
The sisters Pandrosos and Herse keep
The strict command; Aglauros needs would peep,
And saw the monstrous infant in a fright,
And called her sisters to the hideous sight:
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A boy's soft shape did to the waist prevail,
But the boy ended in a dragon's tail.
I told the stern Minerva all that passed,
But for my pains, discarded and disgraced,
The frowning goddess drove me from her sight,
And for her favourite chose the bird of night.
Be then no tell-tale; for I think my wrong
Enough to teach a bird to hold her tongue.
'But you, perhaps, may think I was removed,
As never by the heavenly maid beloved:
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But I was loved; ask Pallas if I lie;
Though Pallas hate me now, she won't deny:
For I, whom in a feathered shape you view,
Was once a maid, (by heaven, the story's true,)
A blooming maid, and a king's daughter too.
A crowd of lovers owned my beauty's charms;
My beauty was the cause of all my harms;
Neptune, as on his shores I went to rove,
Observed me in my walks, and fell in love.
He made his courtship, he confessed his pain,
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And offered force when all his arts were vain;
Swift he pursued: I ran along the strand,
Till, spent and wearied on the sinking sand,
I shrieked aloud, with cries I filled the air
To gods and men; nor god nor man was there:
A virgin goddess heard a virgin's prayer.
For, as my arms I lifted to the skies,
I saw black feathers from my fingers rise;
I strove to fling my garment to the ground;
My garment turned to plumes, and girt me round:
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My hands to beat my naked bosom try;
Nor naked bosom now nor hands had I.
Lightly I tripped, nor weary as before
Sunk in the sand, but skimmed along the shore;
Till, rising on my wings, I was preferred
To be the chaste Minerva's virgin bird:
Preferred in vain! I now am in disgrace:
Nyctimene, the owl, enjoys my place.
'On her incestuous life I need not dwell,
(In Lesbos still the horrid tale they tell,)
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And of her dire amours you must have heard,
For which she now does penance in a bird,
That, conscious of her shame, avoids the light,
And loves the gloomy covering of the night;
The birds, where'er she flutters, scar