She knew her father’s arts, and could rehearse
  The depths of prophecy in sounding verse. 
  Once, as the sacred infant she surveyed,
  The god was kindled in the raving maid,
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  And thus she uttered her prophetic tale;
  ’Hail, great physician of the world, all hail;
  Hail, mighty infant, who in years to come
  Shalt heal the nations and defraud the tomb;
  Swift be thy growth! thy triumphs unconfined! 
  Make kingdoms thicker, and increase mankind. 
  Thy daring art shall animate the dead,
  And draw the thunder on thy guilty head: 
  Then shalt thou die; but from the dark abode
  Rise up victorious, and be twice a god.
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  And thou, my sire, not destined by thy birth
  To turn to dust, and mix with common earth,
  How wilt thou toss, and rave, and long to die,
  And quit thy claim to immortality;
  When thou shalt feel, enraged with inward pains,
  The Hydra’s venom rankling in thy veins’? 
  The gods, in pity, shall contract thy date,
  And give thee over to the power of Fate.’ 
     Thus, entering into destiny, the maid
  The secrets of offended Jove betrayed;
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  More had she still to say; but now appears
  Oppressed with sobs and sighs, and drowned in tears. 
     ‘My voice,’ says she, ’is gone, my language fails;
  Through every limb my kindred shape prevails: 
  Why did the god this fatal gift impart,
  And with prophetic raptures swell my heart! 
  What new desires are these?  I long to pace
  O’er flowery meadows, and to feed on grass: 
  I hasten to a brute, a maid no more;
  But why, alas! am I transformed all o’er?
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  My sire does half a human shape retain,
  And in his upper parts preserves the man.’ 
     Her tongue no more distinct complaints affords,
  But in shrill accents and mishapen words
  Pours forth such hideous wailings, as declare
  The human form confounded in the mare: 
  Till by degrees accomplished in the beast,
  She neighed outright, and all the steed expressed. 
  Her stooping body on her hands is borne,
  Her hands are turned to hoofs, and shod in horn;
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  Her yellow tresses ruffle in a mane,
  And in a flowing tail she frisks her train. 
  The mare was finished in her voice and look,
  And a new name from the new figure took.

  THE TRANSFORMATION OF BATTUS TO A TOUCHSTONE.

     Sore wept the centaur, and to Phoebus prayed;
  But how could Phoebus give the centaur aid? 
  Degraded of his power by angry Jove,
  In Elis then a herd of beeves he drove;
  And wielded in his hand a staff of oak,
  And o’er his shoulders threw the shepherd’s cloak;
  On seven compacted reeds he used to play,
  And on his rural pipe to waste the day. 
     As once, attentive to his pipe, he played,
  The crafty Hermes from the god conveyed