Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 1) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/260

178 O Grant me this! she passionately cries, But while she speaks, the destin'd Virgin dies.

Widow'd, and Childless, lamentable State! A doleful Sight, among the Dead she sate; Harden'd with Woes, a Statue of Despair, To ev'ry Breath of Wind unmov'd her Hair; Her Cheek still red'ning, but its Colour dead, Faded her Eyes, and set within her Head. No more her pliant Tongue its Motion keeps, But stands congeal'd within her frozen Lips. Stagnate, and dull, within her purple Veins, Its Current stopp'd, the lifeless Blood Remains. Her Feet their usual Offices refuse, Her Arms, and Neck their graceful Gestures lose: Action, and Life from ev'ry Part are gone, And ev'n her Intrails turn to solid Stone; Yet still she weeps, and whirled by stormy Winds, Born thro' the Air, her native Country finds; There fix'd, she stands upon a bleaky Hill, There yet her marble Cheeks eternal Tears distil.

Then all, reclaim'd by this Example, show'd A due Regard for each peculiar God: Both Men, and Women their Devoirs express'd, And great Latona's awful Pow'r confess'd. Then, tracing Instances of older Time, To suit the Nature of the present Crime, Thus one begins his Tale—Where Lycia yields A golden Harvest from its fertile Fields, Some churlish Peasants, in the Days of Yore, Provok'd the Goddess to exert her Pow'r. The