Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 1) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/259

Book 6. Then her pale Arms advancing to the Skies, Cruel Latona! triumph now, she cries. My grieving Soul in bitter Anguish drench, And with my Woes your thirsty Passion quench; Feast your black Malice at a Price thus dear, While the sore Pangs of sev'n such Deaths I bear. Triumph, too cruel Rival, and display Your conqu'ring Standard; for you've won the Day. Yet I'll excel; for yet, tho' sev'n are slain, Superior still in Number I remain. Scarce had she spoke; the Bow-string's twanging Sound Was heard, and dealt fresh Terrors all around; Which all, but Niobè alone, confound. Stunn'd, and obdurate by her Load of Grief, Insensible she sits, nor hopes Relief. Before the fun'ral Biers, all weeping sad, Her Daughters stood, in Vests of Sable clad. When one, surpriz'd, and stung with sudden Smart, In vain attempts to draw the sticking Dart: But to grim Death her blooming Youth resigns, And o'er her Brother's Corpse her dying Head reclines. This, to asswage her Mother's Anguish tries, And, silenc'd in the pious Action, dies; Shot by a secret Arrow, wing'd with Death, Her fault'ring Lips but only gasp'd for Breath. One, on her dying Sister, breathes her last; Vainly in Flight another's Hopes are plac'd: This hiding, from her Fate a Shelter seeks; That trembling stands, and fills the Air with Shrieks. And all in vain; for now all six had found Their Way to Death, each by a diff'rent Wound. The last, with eager Care the Mother veil'd, Behind her spreading Mantle close conceal'd, And with her Body guarded, as a Shield. Only for this, this youngest, I implore. Grant me this one Request, I ask no more; Rh