Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 1) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/235

Book 5. The fruitful Soil, that once such Harvests bore, Now mocks the Farmer's Care, and teems no more. And the rich Grain which fills the furrow'd Glade, Rots in the Seed, or shrivels in the Blade; Or too much Sun burns up, or too much Rain, Drowns, or black Blights destroy the blasted Plain; Or greedy Birds the new-sown Seed devour, Or Darnel, Thistles, and a Crop impure Of knotted Grass along the Acres stand, And spread their thriving Roots thro' all the Land. Then from the Waves soft Arethusa rears Her Head, and back she flings her dropping Hairs. O Mother of the Maid, whom thou so far Hast sought, of whom thou canst no Tidings hear; O thou, she cry'd, who art to Life a Friend, Cease here thy Search, and let thy Labour end. Thy faithful Sicily's a guiltless Clime, And shou'd not suffer for another's Crime; She neither knew, nor cou'd prevent the Deed. Nor think that for my Country thus I plead; My Country's Pisa, I'm an Alien here, Yet these Abodes to Elis I prefer, No Clime to me so sweet, no place so dear. These Springs I Arethusa now possess, And this my Seat, O gracious Goddess, bless. This Island why I love, and why I crost Such spacious Seas to reach Ortygia's Coast, To you I shall impart, when, void of Care, Your Heart's at Ease, and you're more fit to hear; When on your Brow no pressing Sorrow sits, For gay Content alone such Tales admits. When thro' Earth's Caverns I a while have roul'd My Waves, I rise, and here again behold The long lost Stars; and, as I late did glide Near Styx, Proserpina there I espy'd. Fear