old Amyclae: nor Ulysses' sire:
Ancaeus of Parrhasia: Mopsus sage:
Amphiareus, then by his false spouse's guile
Betray'd not. With them Atalanta came,
The grace and glory of Arcadia's woods.
A shining buckle from the ground confin'd
Her garment's border: simply bound, her hair
One knot confin'd: her ivory quiver, slung
O'er her left shoulder, sounded as she stepp'd:
Her hand sustain'd a bow: and thus array'd
Appear'd her form. Her lineaments disclos'd,
What scarce might feminine in boys appear;
Or hardly boyish in a virgin's face.
The chief of Calydon the maid beheld,--
Beheld, and lov'd: while heaven his love oppos'd.
The secret flames inhaling deep, he cry'd,--
"O, blessed youth! if youth to gain thy hand
"Worthy were deem'd!"--Nor bashful shame, nor time
Would more allow; a mightier deed now claim'd
Their utmost efforts for the furious war.

Darken'd with trees thick-growing, rose a wood;
From earliest ages there the biting axe
Had never sounded; in the plain it rear'd
Facing the sloping fields. The youths arriv'd;
Some spread the knotted toils; some loose the hounds;
Some strive the foot-prints of the boar to trace,
Their danger anxious seeking. Low beneath
A hollow vale extended, where the floods
Fresh showery torrents gather'd, lazy laid.
The flexile willow, and the waving reed;
The fenny bulrush, osier, and the cane
Diminutive, the stagnant depth conceal'd.
Arous'd from hence, the boar impetuous rush'd
Amidst his host of foes; so lightenings dart
When clouds concussive clash. His rapid force
Levels the grove, the crackling trees resound
Where'er he pushes: loud the joyful youth
Exclaim, each grasping with a nervous hand
His weapon brandish'd, while its broad head shakes.
Forward he darts, the dogs he scatters wide,
And each opposing power; his strokes oblique
Their baying drives to distance. Echion's arm
Hurl'd the first dart, but hurl'd the dart in vain;
Lightly a maple's trunk the weapon graz'd.
The next, but over-urg'd the force that sent,
Had pierc'd the rough back of the wish'd-for prey;
Jason's the steel,--it whizz'd beyond him far.
Then Mopsus pray'd,--"O Phoebus! if thy rites
"I e'er perform'd, if still I thee adore,
"Grant my sure weapon what I wish to touch."
The god consented, what he could he gave,--
The boar was struck, but struck without a wound:
Diana from the flying weapon snat