Cycnus beheld the nymphs transform’d, allied
To their dead brother on the mortal side,
In friendship and affection nearer bound,
He left the cities and the realms he own’d,
Through pathless fields and lonely shores to range,
And woods made thicker by the sisters’ change.
While here within the dismal gloom alone,
The melancholy monarch made his moan,
His voice was lessen’d as he tried to speak,
And issued through a long extended neck;
His hair transforms to down, his fingers meet
In skinny films and shape his oary feet;
From both his sides the wings and feathers break,
And from his mouth proceeds a blunted beak:
All Cycnus now into a swan was turn’d,
Who, still remembering how his kinsman burn’d,
To solitary pools and lakes retires,
And loves the waters as opposed to fires.
Meanwhile Apollo, in the gloomy shade
(The native lustre of his brows decay’d),
Indulging sorrow, sickens at the sight
Of his own sunshine, and abhors the light.
The hidden griefs that in his bosom rise,
Sadden his looks and overcast his eyes,
As when some dusky orb obstructs his ray,
And sullies, in a dim eclipse, the day.
Now secretly with inward griefs he pined,
Now warm resentments to his grief he join’d,
And now renounced his office to mankind.
“E’er since the birth of time,” said he, “I’ve borne
A long ungrateful toil without return;
Let now some other manage, if he dare,
The fiery steeds, and mount the burning car;
Or, if none else, let Jove his fortune try,
And learn to lay his murd’ring thunder by;
Then will he own, perhaps, but own too late,
My son deserved not so severe a fate.”
The gods stand round him, as he mourns, and pray
He would resume the conduct of the day,
Nor let the world be lost in endless night;
Jove too himself, descending from his height,
Excuses what had happen’d, and entreats,
Majestically mixing prayers and threats.
Prevail’d upon at length, again he took
The harness’d steeds, that still with horror shook,
And plies them with the lash, and whips them on,
And, as he whips, upbraids them with his son.