Strait he ascends the high Ætherial Throne,
From whence he us'd to dart his Thunder down,
From whence his Show'rs and Storms he us'd to pour,
But now cou'd meet with neither Storm nor Show'r.
Then, aiming at the Youth, with lifted Hand,
Full at his Head he hurl'd the forky Brand,
In dreadful Thund'rings. Thus th' Almighty Sire
Suppress'd the Raging of the Fires with Fire.
At once from Life and from the Chariot driv'n,
Th' ambitious Boy fell thunder-struck from Heav'n.
The Horses started with a sudden Bound,
And flung the Reins and Chariot to the Ground:
The studded Harness from their Necks they broke,
Here fell a Wheel, and here a Silver Spoke,
Here were the Beam and Axle torn away;
And, scatter'd o'er the Earth, the shining Fragments lay.
The breathless Phaeton, with flaming Hair,
Shot from the Chariot, like a falling Star,
That in a Summer's Ev'ning from the Top
Of Heav'n drops down, or seems at least to drop;
Till on the Po his blasted Corps was hurl'd,
Far from his Country, in the Western World.
Phaeton's Sisters transformed into Trees.
The Latian Nymphs came round him, and amaz'd
On the dead Youth, transfix'd with Thunder gaz'd;
And, whilst yet smoaking from the Bolt he lay,
His shatter'd Body to a Tomb convey,
And o'er the Tomb an Epitaph devise:
"Here he who drove the Sun's bright Chariot lies;
"His Father's fiery Steeds he cou'd not guide,
"But in the glorious Enterprize he dy'd.
Apollo hid his Face, and pin'd for Grief,
And, if the Story may deserve Belief,
