Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 1) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/121

The Space of one whole Day is said to run,
From Morn to wonted Ev'n, 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 Clymenè, enrag'd with Grief, laments,
And as her Grief inspires, her Passion vents:
Wild for her Son, and frantick in her Woes,
With Hair dishevel'd round the World she goes,
To seek where'er his Body might be cast;
Till, on the Borders of the Po, at last
The Name inscrib'd 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:
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 return'd;
So long the Mother and the Daughters mourn'd:
When now the Eldest, Phaethusa, strove
To rest her weary Limbs, but cou'd not move;
Lampetia wou'd have help'd her, but she found
Her self with-held, and rooted to the Ground:
A Third in wild Affliction, as she grieves,
Woud rend her Hair, but fills her Hand with Leaves;
One sees her Thighs transform'd, another views
Her Arms shot out, and branching into Boughs.
And now their Legs, and Breasts, and Bodies stood
Crusted with Bark, and hard'ning into Wood;
But still above were Female Heads display'd,
And Mouths, that call'd the Mother to their Aid.

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