He stood well pleas'd to touch the charming Fair,
But hardly could confine his Pleasure there.
And now he wantons o'er the neighb'ring Strand,
Now rowls his Body on the yellow Sand;
And, now perceiving all her Fears decay'd,
Comes tossing forward to the Royal Maid;
Gives her his Breast to stroke, and downward turns
His grizy Brow, and gently stoops his Horns.
In flow'ry Wreaths the Royal Virgin drest
His bending Horns, and kindly clapt his Breast.
Till now grown wanton and devoid of Fear
Not knowing that she prest the Thunderer,
She plac'd her self upon his Back, and rode
O'er Fields and Meadows, seated on the God.
He gently march'd along, and by degrees,
Left the dry Meadow, and approached the Seas;
Where now he dips his Hoofs and wets his Thighs,
Now plunges in, and carries off the Prize.
The frighted Nymph looks backward on the Shoar,
And hears the tumbling Billows round her roar;
But still she holds him fast: one Hand is born
Upon his Back; the other grasps a Horn:
Her Train of ruffling Garments flies behind,
Swells in the Air, and hovers in the Wind.
Through Storms and Tempests he the Virgin bore,
And lands her safe on the Dictean Shore;
Where now, in his divinest Form array'd,
In his True Shape he captivates the Maid;
Who gazes on him, and with wond'ring Eyes
Beholds the new majestick Figure rise,
His glowing Features, and celestial Light,
And all the God discover'd to her Sight.
The End of the Second Book.
