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Too soon he heard of fair IANTHE'S fame; 'Twas each enamour'd Shepherd's fav'rite theme; Return'd the rising and the setting sun,

The Shepherd's fav'rite theme was never done.
They prais'd her wit, her worth, her shape, her air,
And even inferior beauties own'd her fair.

Such sweet perfection all his wonder mov'd;
He saw, admir'd, nay, fancied that he lov'd:
But POLYDORE no gen'rous passion knew,
Lost to all truth in feigning to be true.
No lasting tenderness could warm a heart,
Too vain to feel, to selfish to impart.

Cold as the snows of Rhodope descend,
And with the chilling waves of Hebrus blend;
So cold the breast where Vanity presides,
And the whole subject soul absorbs and guides.
Too well he knew to make his conquest sure,
Win her soft heart, yet keep his own secure.
So oft he told the well-imagin'd tale,
So oft he swore - how should he not prevail?
The well-imagin❜d tale the nymph believ'd;
Too unsuspecting not to be deceiv'd:

She lov'd the youth, she thought herself belov'd,
Nor blush'd to praise whom every maid approv'd.
The conquest once achiev'd, the brightest fair,
When conquer'd, was no longer worth his care;
When to the world her passion he could prove,
Vain of his pow'r, he jested at her love.
The perjur'd youth, from sad IANthe far,
To win fresh triumphs wages cruel war.
With other nymphs behold the wand'rer rove,
And tell the story of IANTHE's love;

He mocks her easy faith, insults her woe,
Nor pities tears himself had taught to flow.
To sad IANTHE Soon the tale was borne,
HOW POLYDORE to treach'ry added scorn.

And now her eyes' soft radiance 'gan to fail,
And now the crimson of her cheek grew pale;
The lily there, in faded beauty, shows
Its sickly empire o'er the vanquish'd rose.
Devouring Sorrow marks her for his prey,
And, slow and certain, mines his silent way.
Yet, as apace her ebbing life declin'd,
Increasing strength sustain'd her firmer mind.
"O had my heart been hard as his," she cried,
"A hapless victim thus I had not died:

"If there be gods, and gods there surely are,
"Insulted virtue doubtless is their care.

"Then hasten, righteous Powers! my tedious fate, "Shorten my woes, and end my mortal date: "Quick let your power transform this failing frame, "Let me be any thing but what I am!

"And since the cruel woes I'm doom'd to feel, "Proceed, alas! from having lov'd too well; "Grant me some form where love can have no part, "No human weakness reach my guarded heart; "Where no soft touch of passion can be felt, "No fond affection this weak bosom melt.

"If pity has not left your blest abodes,

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Change me to flinty adamant, ye gods!

"To hardest rock, or monumental stone,

"So may I know no more the pangs I've known ; "So shall I thus no farther torments prove,

"Nor taunting rivals say she died for love:

"For sure, if aught can agravate our woe, ""Tis the feign'd pity of a prosp'rous foe."

Thus pray'd the nymph- and strait the Pow'rs address'd

Accord the weeping suppliant's sad request.

Then, strange to tell! if rural folks say true, To harden'd Rock the stiff'ning damsel grew; No more her shapeless features can be known, Stone is her body, and her limbs are stone; The growing rock invades her beauteous face; And quickly petrifies each living grace: The stone, her stature nor her shape retains, The Nymph is vanish'd, but the Rock remains. No vestige now of human form appears, No cheek for blushes, and no eyes for tears: Yet-strange the marvels Poets can impart ! Unchang'd, unchill'd, remain'd the glowing heart; Its vital spirits destin'd still to keep,

It scorn'd to mingle with the marble heap.

When babbling Fame the wondrous tidings bore,
Grief seiz'd the soul of perjur'd POLYDORE;
And now the falsehood of his soul appears,
And now his broken vows assail his ears.
Appall'd, his smitten fancy seems to view
The nymph so lovely, and the friend so true;
For since her absence, all the virgin train
His admiration sought to win in vain.

Though not to keep him ev'n IANTHE knew,
From vanity alone his falsehood grew:
O let the youthful heart, thus warn'd, beware,
Of vanity, how deep, how wide the snare;

That half the mischiefs youth and beauty know,
From VANITY's exhaustless fountain flow.

Now deep remorse deprives his soul of rest,
And deep compunction wounds his guilty breast:
Then to the fatal spot in haste he flew,
Eager some vestige of the maid to view ;

The shapeless Rock he mark'd, but found no trace
Of lost IANTHE's form, IANTHE's face,

He fix'd his streaming eyes upon the stone, "And take, sweet maid," he cried, "my parting

groan;

"Since we are doom'd thus terribly to part,
"No other nymph shall ever share my heart;
“Thus only I'm absolv'd” — he rashly cried,
Then plung'd a deadly poniard in his side!
Fainting, the steel he grasp'd, and as he fell
The weapon pierc'd the Rock he lov'd so well;
The steel assail'd the only living part,

And stabb'd the vital, vulnerable heart.

And though the rocky mass was pale before,
Behold it ting'd with ruddy streams of gore!
The life-blood issuing from the wounded stone,
Blends with the crimson current of his own;
From POLYDORE's fresh wound it flow'd in part,
But chief emitted from IANTHE's heart.
And though revolving ages since have past,
The meeting torrents undiminish'd last;
Still gushes out the sanguine stream amain,
The standing wonder of the stranger swain.

Now once a year, so rustic records tell,
When o'er the heath resounds the midnight bell;

On eve of Midsummer, that foe to sleep,

What time young maids their annual vigils keep,
The tell-tale shrub *, fresh gather'd to declare
The swains who false, from those who constant are;
When ghosts in clanking chains the church-yard walk,
And to the wond'ring ear of fancy talk:

When the scar'd maid steals trembling through the grove,

To kiss the grave of him who died for love:

When, with long watchings, Care, at length oppress'd,
Steals broken pauses of uncertain rest;

Nay, Grief short snatches of repose can take,
And nothing but Despair is quite awake:
Then, at that hour, so still, so full of fear,
When all things horrible to thought appear,
Is perjur'd POLYDORE observ'd to rove

A ghastly spectre through the gloomy grove:
Then to the Rock, the Bleeding Rock, repair,
Where, sadly sighing, it dissolves to air.

Still when the hours of solemn rites return,
The village train in sad procession mourn:
Pluck ev'ry weed which might the spot disgrace,
And plant the fairest field-flow'rs in their place.
Around no noxious plant, or flow'ret grows,
But the first daffodil, and earliest rose:
The snow-drop spreads its whitest bosom here,
And golden cowslips grace the vernal year:
Here the pale primrose takes a fairer hue,
And ev'ry violet boasts a brighter blue.

* Midsummer-men, consulted as oracular by village maids.

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