Fain would he heal the Wound, and ease her Pain,
And tries the Compass of his Art in vain.
Soon as he saw the lovely Nymph expire,
The Pile made ready, and the kindling Fire,
With Sighs and Groans her Obsequies he kept,
And, if a God could weep, the God had wept.
Her Corps he kiss'd, and heav'nly Incense brought,
And solemniz'd the Death himself had wrought.
But, left his Offspring should her Fate partake,
Spight of th' Immortal Mixture in his Make,
He ript her Womb, and set the Child at large,
And gave him to the Centaur Chiron's Charge:
Then in his Fury black'd the Raven o'er,
And bid him prate in his white Plumes no more.
Ocyrrhoe transform'd into a Mare.
Old Chiron took the Babe with secret Joy,
Proud of the Charge of the Celestial Boy,
His Daughter too, whom on the sandy Shore
The Nymph Chariclo to the Centaur bore,
With Hair dishevel'd on her Shoulders came
To see the Child, Ocyrrhoë was her Name;
She knew her Father's Arts, and could rehearse
The Depths of Prophecy in sounding Verse.
Once, as the Sacred Infant she survey'd,
The God was kindled in the raving Maid,
And thus she utter'd her Prophetick 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 unconfin'd!
"Make Kingdoms thicker, and increase Mankind.
"Thy daring Art shall animate the Dead,
"And draw the Thunder on thy guilty Head:
