Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 1) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/95

Book He gathers Ground upon her in the Chace: Now breathes upon her Hair, with nearer Pace; And just is fast'ning on the wish'd Embrace. The Nymph grew Pale, and in a mortal Fright, Spent with the labour of so long a Flight; And now despairing cast a mournful Look Upon the Streams of her Paternal Brook: Oh help, she cry'd, in this extreamest need, If Water Gods are Deities indeed: Gape Earth, and this unhappy Wretch intomb; Or change my Form, whence all my Sorrows come. Scarce had she finish'd, when her Feet she found Benumb'd with Cold, and fasten'd to the Ground: A filmy Rind about her Body grows; Her Hair to Leaves, her Arms extend to Boughs: The Nymph is all unto a Lawrel gone: The smoothness of her Skin remains alone. Yet Phœbus loves her still, and casting round Her Bole, his Arms, some little warmth he found. The Tree still Panted in th' unfinish'd part: Not wholly Vegitive, and heav'd her Heart. He fix'd his Lips upon the trembling Rind; It swerv'd aside, and his Embrace declin'd. To whom the God, because thou can'st not be My Mistress, I espouse thee for my Tree: Be thou the prize of Honour and Renown; The deathless Poet, and the Poem Crown, Thou shalt the Roman Festivals adorn, And, after Poets, be by Victors worn. Thou shalt returning Cæsar's Triumph grace; When Pomps shall in a long Procession pass. Wreath'd on the Posts before his Palace wait; And be the sacred Guardian of the Gate. Secure from Thunder, and unharm'd by Jove, Unfading as th' immortal Pow'rs above: And