His father’s fiery steeds he could not guide,
  But in the glorious enterprise he died.’ 
     Apollo hid his face, and pined for grief,
  And, if the story may deserve belief,
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  The space of one whole day is said to run,
  From morn to wonted even, without a sun: 
  The burning ruins, with a fainter ray,
  Supply the sun, and counterfeit a day,
  A day that still did nature’s face disclose: 
  This comfort from the mighty mischief rose. 
     But Clymene, enraged with grief, laments,
  And, as her grief inspires, her passion vents: 
  Wild for her son, and frantic in her woes,
  With hair dishevelled, round the world she goes,
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  To seek where’er his body might be cast;
  Till, on the borders of the Po, at last
  The name inscribed on the new tomb appears: 
  The dear, dear name she bathes in flowing tears,
  Hangs o’er the tomb, unable to depart,
  And hugs the marble to her throbbing heart. 
     Her daughters too lament, and sigh, and mourn,
  (A fruitless tribute to their brother’s urn,)
  And beat their naked bosoms, and complain,
  And call aloud for Phaeton in vain: 
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  All the long night their mournful watch they keep,
  And all the day stand round the tomb, and weep. 
     Four times revolving the full moon returned;
  So long the mother and the daughters mourned: 
  When now the eldest, Phaethusa, strove
  To rest her weary limbs, but could not move;
  Lampetia would have helped her, but she found
  Herself withheld, and rooted to the ground: 
  A third in wild affliction, as she grieves,
  Would rend her hair, but fills her hands with leaves;
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  One sees her thighs transformed, another views
  Her arms shot out, and branching into boughs. 
  And now their legs and breasts and bodies stood
  Crusted with bark, and hardening into wood;
  But still above were female heads displayed,
  And mouths, that called the mother to their aid. 
  What could, alas! the weeping mother do? 
  From this to that with eager haste she flew,
  And kissed her sprouting daughters as they grew. 
  She tears the bark that to each body cleaves,
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  And from their verdant fingers strips the leaves: 
  The blood came trickling, where she tore away
  The leaves and bark:  the maids were heard to say,
  ’Forbear, mistaken parent, oh! forbear;
  A wounded daughter in each tree you tear;
  Farewell for ever.’  Here the bark increased,
  Closed on their faces, and their words suppressed. 
     The new-made trees in tears of amber run,
  Which, hardened into value by the sun,
  Distil for ever on the streams below: 
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  The limpid streams their radiant treasure show,
  Mixed in the sand; whence the rich drops conveyed,
  Shine in the dress of the bright Latian maid.

  THE TRANSFORMATION OF CYCNUS INTO A SWAN.