Page:Virgil - The Georgics, Thomas Nevile, 1767.djvu/119

 Book IV. At the stream's sacred source the sorrowing swain

Addrest his mother thus in plaintive strain.

Parent Cyrene! Parent! you, who haunt

This spring's deep bottom! why was I, who vaunt

Celestial lineage, (if, as you relate,

My Sire be Phœbus,) born the sport of Fate?

Ah! where is now a Parent's tender love!

Why was I taught to pant for joys above?

Lo! this poor pride of fragile life, the last

And painful produce of my labours past,

To many a trial due, ev'n while I boast

A Goddess-mother, to my hopes is lost.

Go! if thus weary of thy son's fair fame,

Go! blast my harvests, wrap my folds in flame,

Root up my thriving trees, the vast axe wield

At my young vines, and fire my planted field.

Beneath the channel of the stream profound

The Parent-goddess heard the wailing sound:

Circling her grot of Nymphs a busy train

Comb'd fleeces, tinctur'd with cerulean stain:

Here Xantho, and Ligea shril of tone,

Drymo, Phyllodoce, sit near the throne;

Down their white necks loose flow'd their glossy hair:

Spio, Cymodoce, Nesæe, there: Her