nce gave. Up to the skies my arms
"I stretch'd; and black my arms began to grow,
"With waving pinions. From my shoulders, back
"My robes I strove to fling,--my robes were plumes;
"Deep in my skin the quills were fix'd: I try'd
"On my bare bosom with my hands to beat;
"Nor hands nor naked bosom now were found:
"I ran; the sand no longer now retain'd
"My feet, but lightly o'er the ground I skimm'd;
"And soon on pinions through the air was borne;
"And Pallas' faultless favorite I became.
"What now avail to me my pure deserts?
"Nyctimene, whose horrid crime deserv'd
"Her transformation, to my place succeeds.
"The deed so wide through spacious Lesbos known,
"Ere this has reach'd thee;--how Nyctimene--
"Her father's bed defil'd,--a bird became.
"Conscious of guilt, she shuns the sight of man;
"Flies from the day, and in nocturnal shades
"Conceals her shame; by every bird assail'd
"And exil'd from the skies." The crow in rage
To her still chattering, cry'd;--"May each delay
"Thy babbling causes, prove to thee a curse.
"I scorn thy foolish presages,"--and flew
His journey urging. When his master found,
He told him where Coronis he had seen
Claspt by a young Thessalian. Down he dropp'd
His laurel garland, when the crime he heard
Of her he lov'd;--his harp away he flung;
His countenance fell, and pale his visage grew.
Now with fierce rage his swelling bosom fires;
His wonted arms he seizes; draws his bow,
Bent to the horns; and through that breast so oft
Embrac'd,--th' inevitable weapon drove.
Deep groan'd the wounded nymph, and tearing out
The arrow from her breast, a purple flood
Gush'd o'er her shining limbs. She sighing cry'd,--
"This fate, O Phoebus, I deserv'dly meet,
"Were but thy infant born;--two now in one
"Thy dart has slain!"--She spoke,--her vital blood
Fast flow'd, and stay'd her voice. A deadly chill
Seiz'd all her members, now of life bereft.
Too late, alas! her sorrowing lover mourns
His cruel vengeance; and himself he hates,
Too credulous listening, and too soon enflam'd:
The bird he hates, who first betray'd the deed
And caus'd him first to grieve: his bow he hates;
His bowstring; arm; and with his arm the dart,
Shot vengeful. Fond he clasps her fallen form;
And strives by skill, by skill too late apply'd
To conquer fate:--his healing arts he tries,--
All unavailing. Fruitless he beholds
His ea