Classic Poem

Phaebus for Thee too, Hyacinth , design'd
A Place among the Gods, had Fate been kind:
Yet this he gave; as oft as wintry Rains
Are past, and vernal Breezes sooth the Plains,
From the green Turf a purple Flow'r you rise,
And with your fragrant Breath perfume the Skies
You when alive were Phaebus' darling Boy;
In you he plac'd his Heav'n, and fix'd his Joy:
Their God the Delphic Priests consult in vain;
Eurotas now he loves, and Sparta 's Plain:
His Hands the use of Bow, and Harp forget,
And hold the Dogs, or bear the corded Net;
O'er hanging Cliffs swift he pursues the Game;
Each Hour his Pleasure, each augments his Flame
The mid-day Sun now shone with equal Light
Between the past, and the succeeding Night;
They strip, then, smooth'd with suppling Oyl, essay
To pitch the rounded Quoit, their wonted Play:
A well-pois'd Disk first hasty Phaebus threw,
It cleft the Air, and whistled as it flew;
It reach'd the Mark, a most surprizing Length;
Which spoke an equal Share of Art, and Strength
Scarce was it fall'n, when with too eager Hand
Young Hyacinth ran to snatch it from the Sand;
But the curst Orb, which met a stony Soil,
Flew in his Face with violent Recoil.
Both faint, both pale, and breathless now appear,
The Boy with Pain, the am'rous God with Fear.
He ran, and rais'd him bleeding from the Ground,
Chafes his cold Limbs, and wipes the fatal Wound:
Then Herbs of noblest Juice in vain applies;
The Wound is mortal, and his Skill defies.
As in a water'd Garden's blooming Walk,
When some rude Hand has bruis'd its tender Stalk,
A sading Lilly droops its languid Head,
And bends to Earth, its Life and Beauty fled:
So Hyacinth , with Head reclin'd, decays,
And, sick'ning, now no more his Charms displays.
O thou art gone, my Boy, Apollo cry'd,
Defrauded of thy Youth in all its Pride!
Thou, once my Joy, art all my Sorrow now;
And to my guilty Hand my Grief I owe.
Yet from my self I might the Fault remove,
Unless to sport, and play a Fault should prove,
Unless it too were call'd a Fault to love.
Oh cou'd I for thee, or but with thee, dye!
But cruel Fates to me that Pow'r deny.
Yet on my Tongue thou shalt for ever dwell;
Thy Name my Lyre shall sound, my Verse shall tell;
And to a Flow'r transform'd, unheard of yet,
Stamp'd on thy Leaves my Cries thou shalt repeat.
The time shall come, prophetick I foreknow,
When, joyn'd to thee, a mighty Chief shall grow,
And with my Plaints his Name thy Leaf shall show.
While Phaebus thus the Laws of Fate reveal'd,
Behold, the Blood which stain'd the verdant Field,
Is Blood no longer; but a Flow'r full blown
Far brighter than the Tyrian Scarlet shone.
A Lilly's Form it took; its purple Hue
Was all that made a Diff'rence to the View.
Nor stop'd he here; the God upon its Leaves
The sad Expression of his Sorrow weaves;
And to this Hour the mournful Purple wears
Ai, Ai , inscrib'd in funeral Characters.
Nor are the Spartans , who so much are fam'd
For Virtue, of their Hyacinth asham'd;
But still with pompous Woe and solemn State,
The Hyacinthian Feasts they yearly celebrate.

Amid the Throng of this promiscuous Wood,
With pointed Top, the taper Cypress stood;
A Tree, which once a Youth, and heav'nly fair,
Was of that Deity the darling Care,
Whose Hand adapts, with equal Skill, the Strings
To Bows with which he kills, and Harps to which he sings.
For, heretofore, a mighty Stag was bred,
Which on the fertile Fields of Caea fed;
In Shape and Size he all his Kind excell'd,
And to Carthean Nymphs was sacred held.
His beamy Head, with Branches high display'd,
Afforded to itself an ample Shade;
His Horns were gilt, and his smooth Neck was grac'd
With Silver Collars thick with Gems enchas'd:
A Silver Boss upon his Forehead hung,
And brazen Pendants in his Ear'rings rung.
Frequenting Houses, he familiar grew,
And learnt by Custom, Nature to subdue;
Till by degrees, of Fear and Wildness, broke,
Ev'n Stranger Hands his proffer'd Neck might stroak
Much was the Beast by Caea 's Youth caress'd,
But thou, sweet Cyparissus , lov'dst him best:
By thee, to Pastures fresh, he oft was led,
By thee, oft water'd at the Fountain's Head:
His Horns with Garlands, now, by thee were ty'd,
And, now, thou on his Back wou'dst wanton ride;
Now here, now there wou'dst bound along the Plains,
Ruling his tender Mouth with purple Reins.
'Twas when the Summer Sun at Noon of Day,
Thro' glowing Cancer , shot his burning Ray,
'Twas then, the fav'rite Stag in cool Retreat,
Had sought a Shelter from the scorching Heat;
Along the Grass his weary Limbs he laid,
Inhaling Freshness from the breezy Shade:
When Cyparissus with his pointed Dart,
Unknowing, pierc'd him to the panting Heart.
But when the Youth, surpriz'd, his Error found,
And saw him dying of the cruel Wound,
Himself he would have slain thro' desp'rate Grief;
What said not Phaebus , that might yield Relief!
To cease his Mourning, he the Boy desir'd,
Or mourn no more than such a Loss requir'd.
But, he, incessant griev'd: At length address'd
To the superior Pow'rs a last Request;
Praying, in Expiation of his Crime,
Thenceforth to mourn to all succeeding Time.
And now, of Blood exhausted he appears,
Drain'd by a Torrent of continual Tears;
The fleshy Colour in his Body fades,
And a green Tincture all his Limbs invades;
From his fair Head, where curling Locks late hung,
A horrid Bush with bristled Branches sprung,
Which stiffning by Degrees, its Stem extends,
Till to the starry Skies the Spire ascends.
Apollo sad look'd on, and sighing, cry'd,
Then, be for ever, what thy Pray'r imply'd:
Bemoan'd by me, in others, Grief excite;
And still preside at ev'ry Fun'ral Rite.