d strove in vain to speak; his ravenous mouth
"Still thirsts for slaughter; on the harmless flocks
"His fury rages, as it wont on man:
"Blood glads him still; his vest is shaggy hair;
"His arms sink down to legs; a wolf he stands.
"Yet former traits his visage still retains;
"Grey still his hair; and cruel still his look;
"His eyes still glisten; savage all his form.
"Thus one house perish'd, but not one alone
"The fate deserves. Wherever earth extends,
"The fierce Erinnys reigns; men seem conspir'd
"In impious bond to sin; and all shall feel
"The scourge they merit: fixt is my decree."

Part loud applaud his words, and feed his rage;
The rest assent in silence; yet to all,
Man's loss seems grievous; anxious all enquire
What form shall earth of him depriv'd assume?
Who then shall incense to their altars bring?
And if those rich and fertile lands he means
A spoil for beasts ferocious? Their despair
He bade them banish, and in him confide
For what the future needed; held them forth
The promise of a race unlike the first;
Originating from a wonderous stock.

And now his lightenings were already shot,
And earth in flames, but that a fire so vast,
He fear'd might reach Olympus, and consume
The heavenly axis. Also call'd to mind
What fate had doom'd, that all in future times
By fire should perish, earth, and sea, and heaven;
And all th' unwieldy fabric of the world
Should waste to nought. The Cyclops' labor'd bolts
Aside he laid. A different vengeance now,
To drench with rains from every part of heaven,
And whelm mankind beneath the rising waves,
Pleas'd more th' immortal. Straightway close he pent
The dry north-east, and every blast to showers
Adverse, in caves AEolian, and unbarr'd
The cell of Notus. Notus rushes forth
On pinions dropping rain; his horrid face
A pitchy cloud conceals; pregnant with showers
His beard; and waters from his grey hairs flow:
Mists on his forehead sit; in dews dissolv'd
His arms and bosom, seem to melt away.
With broad hands seizing on the pendent clouds
He press'd them--with a mighty crash they burst,
And thick and constant floods from heaven pour down.
Iris meantime, in various robe array'd,
Collects the waters and supplies the clouds.
Prostrate the harvest lies, the tiller's hopes
Turn to despair. The labors of an year,
A long, long year, without their fruit are spent.
N