r of his robe. The piece of gold that had
formed a buckle, and had fastened his garment, became feathers, and his
neck was encompassed with {the colour of} yellow gold; and nothing {now}
remained to Picus of his former {self}, beyond the name.

"'In the meantime his attendants, having, often in vain, called on Picus
throughout the fields, and, having found him in no direction, meet with
Circe, (for now she has cleared the air, and has allowed the clouds to
be dispersed by the woods and the sun); and they charge her with just
accusations, and demand back their king, and are using violence, and are
preparing to attack her with ruthless weapons. She scatters noxious
venom and poisonous extracts; and she summons together Night, and the
Gods of Night, from Erebus and from Chaos, and she invokes Hecate in
magic howlings. Wondrous to tell, the woods leap from their spot; the
ground utters groans, the neighbouring trees become pallid, the grass
becomes moist, besprinkled with drops of blood; the stones seem to send
forth harsh lowings, the dogs {seem} to bark, and the ground to grow
loathsome with black serpents, and unsubstantial ghosts of the departed
{appear} to flit about. The multitude trembles, astonished at these
prodigies; she touches their astonished faces, as they tremble, with her
enchanted wand. From the touch of this, the monstrous forms of various
wild beasts come upon the young men; his own form remains to no one of
them.

"'The setting Sun has {now} borne down upon the Tartessian shores;[36]
and in vain is her husband expected, both by the eyes and the longings
of Canens. Her servants and the people run about through all the woods,
and carry lights to meet him. Nor is it enough for the Nymph to weep,
and to tear her hair, and to beat her breast; though all this she does,
she rushes forth, and, in her distraction, she wanders through the
Latian fields. Six nights, and as many returning lights of the Sun,
beheld her, destitute of sleep and of food, going over hills and
valleys, wherever chance led her. Tiber, last {of all}, beheld her, worn
out with weeping and wandering, and reposing her body on his cold banks.
There, with tears, she poured forth words attuned, lamenting, in a low
voice, her very woes, as when the swan, now about to die, sings his own
funereal dirge.

"'At last, melting with grief, {even} to her thin marrow, she pined
away, and by degrees vanished into light air. Yet the Fame of it became
atta