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"Hither, dear playmates, and companions dear
Come, let us take our pastime, ride the steer:
His back, thus crouch'd beneath us, will contain
Our troop, like some large ship that skims the main:
Unlike all other bulls, his look is kind,
Serene his temper, and humane his mind:
He only wants a voice:" then laughing gay
She climb'd his back: the rest in frolic play
Would also climb: when straight he starting fled
With her he wish'd, and tow'rds the ocean sped.
She turning stretch'd her hands, and call'd for aid
To each fond playmate, each vain-following maid:
He from the shore plunged onward in the spray,
And, like a dolphin, shot his distant way.
Then their emerging forms the Nereids show'd,
And borne on whales in long procession rode:
The hoarse-voiced Neptune rear'd, himself, the
head,

Levell'd the billows and the voyage led;
His brother's pilot through the watery plain,
While from the gulfs of the deep-flowing main
Upsprang the Tritons, in wide-circling throng,
And blew with spiral shells the nuptial song.

She, on the bull-like back of Jove upborne,

Grasp'd with one hand his curved projecting

horn,

And with the other closely drawn compress'd
The fluttering foldings of her purple vest,
Whene'er its fringed hem was dash'd with dew
Of the salt sea-foam that in circles flew :

Wide o'er Europa's shoulders, to the gale
The ruffled robe heaved swelling, like a sail,
And buoyant bore her up; when now in vain,
With eyes reverted o'er th' expanse of main,
She sought her country, sought some wave-beat
shore ;

And not a mountain top'd the prospect more:
Above, vast ether; ocean without bound

Beneath; she spoke, with eyes wide wandering

round:

"Oh supernatural bull! say whither now
Must I be wafted? whence, or what art thou?
How can thy feet, thus strangely labouring, sweep
The surge, nor thou be startled at the deep?
Swift ships alone can pass the foaming spray,
And bulls shrink shuddering from the ocean way.

Ah! what sweet drink, what food, can here be

thine,

Amidst the bitter element of brine?

Art thou some God? then why with force invade, Unseemly for a God, a helpless maid?

Most sure a God! can dolphins of the main Skim the dry earth? bulls tread the watery plain? Thou walk'st on earth, and rushest from the

shores;

The waves glide from thee, and thy hoofs are oars.
Ah! haply thou will mount the azure air,
And like a bird swift-darting hover there!
Woe, woe is me, unhappy! who could leave
A father's home, and let a bull deceive!
Whilst him I follow, in strange voyage borne,
And o'er the deep stray lonely and forlorn..
But thou, oh Neptune! in the hoary sea
Bearing strong sway, oh help, oh haste to me!
Yes-I have hope that I shall soon behold
The power that pilots me, where waves are roll'd:
For, not without a God, I thus could sweep,
Safe and unbathed, the ever-flowing deep."
She said: the bull of ample horns replied,
"Take courage, gentle maid! nor fear the tide:

I, though near-seen a bull, am heavenly Jove:
I change my shape at will, now changed by love.
Love drove me, bull-like form'd, the waters o'er;
And Crete shall now receive thee on its shore.
Crete where my infancy was nursed of old,
Whose grots shall now our nuptial rite behold;
And thou shalt bear me sons, whose sceptred hand
Shall spread its kingly sway from land to land.”
He spoke, and what he spoke was done; for

Crete

Rose from the sea, to rest the virgin's feet:
Jove, straight transfigured, as himself was known,
And from the maid's coy waist unclasp'd the zone:
The Hours beneath them strew'd the couch of love,
The virgin now became the bride of Jove;
With fire that shot from his embraces glow'd,
And felt within the quicken'd demi-god.

EPITAPH ON BION.

Он forest dells and streams! oh Dorian tide!
Groan with my grief, since lovely Bion died:
Ye plants and copses now his loss bewail:
Flowers from your tufts a sad perfume exhale:
Anemones and roses, mournful show
Your crimson leaves, and wear a blush of woe:
And hyacinth, now more than ever spread
The woeful ah! that marks thy petal'd head
With letter'd grief: the beauteous minstrel's

dead.

Sicilian Muses, pour the dirge of woe:

Ye nightingales, whose plaintive warblings flow
From the thick leaves of some embowering wood,
Tell the sad loss to Arethusa's flood:

The shepherd Bion dies: with him is dead
The life of song: the Doric Muse is fled.

Sicilian Muses, pour the dirge of woe: Where Strymon's gliding waters smoothly flow, Ye swans, chant soft with saddest murmuring Such notes as Bion's self was wont to sing:

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