Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 1) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/218

138 And still it seem'd their horrid Strife to blame, In Life and Death, his pious Zeal the same; While, clinging to the Horns, the Trunk expires, The sever'd Head consumes amidst the Fires. Then Phineus, who from far his Javelin threw, Broteas and Ammon, Twins and Brothers, slew; For knotted Gauntlets matchless in the Field; But Gauntlets must to Swords and Javelins yield. Ampycus next, with hallow'd Fillets bound, As Ceres' Priest, and with a Mitre crown'd His Spear transfix'd, and struck him to the Ground. O Iäpetides, with Pain I tell How you, sweet Lyrist, in the Riot fell; What worse than brutal Rage his Breast could fill, Who did thy Blood, O Bard Celestial, spill? Kindly you press'd amid the Princely Throng, To crown the Feast, and give the Nuptial Song: Discord abhorr'd the Musick of thy Lyre, Whose Notes did gentle Peace so well inspire; Thee, when fierce Pettalus far off espy'd, Defenceless with thy Harp, he scoffing cry'd, Go; to the Ghosts thy soothing Lessons play; We loath thy Lyre, and scorn thy peaceful Lay: And, as again he fiercely bid him go, He pierc'd his Temples with a mortal Blow. His Harp he held, tho' sinking on the Ground, Whose Strings in Death his trembling Fingers found By chance, and tun'd by chance a dying Sound. With Grief Lycormas saw him fall from far, And, wresting from the Door a massy Bar, Full in his Poll lays on a Load of Knocks, Which stun him, and he falls like a devoted Ox. Another Bar Pelates would have snatch'd, But Corythus his Motions slily watch'd; He darts his Weapon from a private Stand, And rivets to the Post his veiny Hand: When