The goddess now, resolving to succeed,
Down to the gloomy shades descends with speed;
But adverse fate had otherwise decreed;
For, long before, her giddy, thoughtless child
Had broke her fast, and all her projects spoil’d.
As in the garden’s shady walk she stray’d,
A fair pomegranate charm’d the simple maid,
Hung in her way, and tempting her to taste,
She pluck’d the fruit, and took a short repast.
Seven times, a seed at once, she eat the food:
The fact Ascalaphus had only view’d,
Whom Acheron begot, in Stygian shades,
On Orphne, famed among Avernal maids;
He saw what pass’d, and, by discovering all,
Detain’d the ravish’d nymph in cruel thrall.
But now a queen, she with resentment heard,
And changed the vile informer to a bird.
In Phlegethon’s black stream her hand she dips,
Sprinkles his head, and wets his babbling lips.
Soon on his face, bedropp’d with magic dew,
A change appear’d, and gaudy feathers grew;
A crooked beak the place of nose supplies;
Rounder his head, and larger are his eyes;
His arms and body waste, but are supplied
With yellow pinions, flagging on each side;
His nails grow crooked, and are turn’d to claws,
And lazily along his heavy wings he draws:
Ill-omen’d in his form, the unlucky fowl,
Abhorr’d by men, and call’d a screeching owl.