Condemn'd by stern Diana to bemoan
The branching Horns, and Visage not his own;
To shun his once lov'd Dogs, to bound away,
And from their Huntsman to become their Prey.
And yet consider why the Change was wrought,
You'll find it his Misfortune, not his Fault;
Or, if a Fault, it was the Fault of Chance:
For how can Guilt proceed from Ignorance?
The Transformation of Actæon into a
Stag.
In a fair Chace a shady Mountain stood,
Well stor'd with Game, and mark'd with Trails of Blood.
Here did the Huntsmen, 'till the Heat of Day
Pursue the Stag, and load themselves with Prey;
When thus Actæon calling to the rest:
"My Friends, says he, our Sport is at the best.
"The Sun is high advanc'd, and downward sheds
"His burning Beams directly on our Heads;
"Then by Consent abstain from further Spoils,
"Call off the Dogs, and gather up the Toils;
"And e'er To-morrow's Sun begins his Race,
"Take the cool Morning to renew the Chace.
They all consent, and in a chearful Train
The jolly Huntsmen, loaden with the Slain,
Return in Triumph from the sultry Plain.
Down in a Vale with Pine and Cypress clad,
Refresh'd with gentle Winds, and brown with Shade,
The chaste Diana's private Haunt, there stood
Full in the Centre of the darksome Wood
A spacious Grotto, all around o'er-grown
With hoary Moss, and arch'd with Pumice-stone.
From out its rocky Clefts the Waters flow,
And trickling swell into a Lake below.
