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87
PHŒBUS TO DAPHNE.
TRANSLATED FROM BOOK I. OF OVID'S METAMORPHOSES
Daphne! await, dispel thy vain alarm:
Sweet nymph! await, no foe designs thee harm;
'Tis thus, with beating heart and rapid pace,
The lamb avoids the cruel wolf's embrace,
The deer the lion, the dove the bird of Jove;
Thus flies, each creature all who hostile prove;
Of my pursuit the moving cause is love.
How wretched I at each retreating bound,
Lest Daphne tripping touch the unworthy ground;
Or, I the cause, whilst flying, faint with fear.
Thy tender limbs the cruel thorns tear.
The way is rugged where thy footsteps lie,
Restrain thy speed, fair nymph, less wildly fly.
And my pursuit arrested by thy stay.
My name and rank thy questions shall repay.
