huns
What favors fire, and joys in purling streams.

Meantime was Phoebus dull, his blaze obscur'd,
As when eclips'd his orb: his rays he hates;
Himself; and even the day. To grief his soul
He gives, and anger to his grief he joins;
Depriving earth of all its wonted light.
"Troubled my lot has been," he cry'd, "since first
"Was publish'd my existence:--urg'd my toil
"Endless,--still unremitted, still unprais'd.
"Now let who will my furious chariot drive
"Flammiferous! If every god shall shrink
"Inadequate,--let Jove the task attempt:
"Then while my reins he tries, at least those flames,
"Which cause parental grief must peaceful rest.
"Then when the fiery flaming coursers strain
"His nervous arms, no more he'll judge the youth
"Of death deserving, who could less control."
Sol, grieving thus, the deities surround,
And suppliant beg that earth may mourn no more,
By darkness 'whelm'd. Ev'n Jove concession gave,--
And why his fiery bolts were launch'd explain'd;
But threats and prayers majestically mix'd.
The steeds with terror trembling, Phoebus seiz'd,
Wild from their late affright, and rein'd their jaws;
Furious he wields his goad and lash, and fierce
He storms, and their impetuous fury blames
At every blow, as murderers of his son.

High heaven's huge walls the mighty sire explores,
With eye close searching, lest a weakening flaw,
Might hurl some part to ruin. All he found
Firm in its pristine strength;--then glanc'd his eye
Around the earth, and toils of man below.
'Bove all terrestrial lands, Arcadia felt--
His own Arcadia--his preserving care.
Her fountains he restores; her streams not yet
To murmur daring; to her fields he gives
Seed-corn; and foliage to her spreading boughs;
And her scorch'd forests bids again look green.
Through here as oft he journey'd, and return'd,
A virgin of Nonacrine he spy'd,
And instant inward fire the god consum'd.
No nymph was she whose skill the wool prepar'd;
Nor comb'd with art her tresses seem'd; full plain,
Her vest a button held; a fillet white
Careless her hair confin'd. Now pois'd her hand
A javelin light, and now a bow she bore:
In Dian's train she ran, nor nymph more dear
To her the mountain Maenalus e'er trode.
But brief the reign of favor! Sol had now
Beyond mid-heaven attain'd; Calistho sought
A grove where felling axe had never rung:
Here was her quiver