Page:Virgil's Pastorals, Georgics and Aeneis - Dryden (1709) - volume 1.pdf/374

198 At length, like Summer Storms from spreading Clouds, That burst at once, and pour impetuous Floods; Or Flights of Arrows from the Parthian Bows, When from afar they gaul embattel'd Foes; With such a Tempest thro' the Skies they Steer; And such a form the winged Squadrons bear. What God, O Muse! this useful Science taught? Or by what Man's Experience was it brought? Sad Aristæus from fair Tempe fled, His Bees with Famine, or Diseases dead: On Peneus's Banks he stood, and near his holy Head. And while his falling Tears the Stream supply'd, Thus mourning, to his Mother Goddess cry'd. Mother Cyrene, Mother, whose abode Is in the depth of this immortal Flood: What boots it, that from Phœbus's Loyns I spring, The third by him and thee, from Heav'ns high King? O! Where is all thy boasted Pity gone, And Promise of the Skies to thy deluded Son? Why didst thou me, unhappy me, create? Odious to Gods, and born to bitter Fate. Whom, scarce my Sheep, and scarce my painful Plough, The needful Aids of Human Life allow; So wretched is thy Son, so hard a Mother thou. Proceed, inhuman Parent in thy Scorn; Root up my Trees, with Blites destroy my Corn; My Vineyards Ruin, and my Sheepfolds burn.