But Mineus’ daughters still their task pursue,
To wickedness most obstinately true;
At Bacchus still they laugh, when all around,
Unseen, the timbrels hoarse were heard to sound.
Saffron and myrrh their fragrant odours shed,
And now the present deity they dread.
Strange to relate! here ivy first was seen,
Along the distaff crept the wondrous green;
Then sudden, springing vines began to bloom,
And the soft tendrils curl’d around the loom;
While purple clusters, dangling from on high,
Tinged the wrought purple with a second die.
Now from the skies was shot a doubtful light,
The day declining to the bounds of night.
The fabric’s firm foundations shake all o’er,
False tigers rage, and figured lions roar,
Torches, aloft, seem blazing in the air,
And angry flashes of red lightnings glare.
To dark recesses, the dire sight to shun,
Swift the pale sisters in confusion run:
Their arms were lost in pinions as they fled,
And subtle films each slender limb o’erspread.
Their alter’d forms their senses soon reveal’d;
Their forms, how alter’d, darkness still conceal’d.
Close to the roof each, wond’ring, upwards springs,
Borne on unknown, transparent, plumeless wings.
They strove for words; their little bodies found
No words, but murmur’d in a fainting sound.
In towns, not woods, the sooty bats delight,
And never till the dusk begin their flight;
Till Vesper rises with his evening flame,
From whom the Romans have derived their name.