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She next, the Queen that in Lycæus reigns,
And She, whose spear protects Pandion's fanes,
A virgin pair, together tread the ground;
For wood-craft one, and one for war renown'd.
Graved on the helm that guards Tritonia's head,
The struggling Typhon wreathes his form of dread,
His nether half alive, his upper dead.
High sweeping through the clouds, her brandish' d spear
Seems like a wood its fearful growth to rear;
While rest as yet, beneath a veil conceal'd,
The hissing terrors of her Gorgon shield.
But Trivia mild might pass for Phœbus well;
In all but sex her brother's parallel.
The beauteous cheek and eyes were Phœbus' own;
Her arms were bare—on the light breezes thrown
She gave her tresses unadorned to flow;
Her darts were idle, and unstrung her bow.
Her Cretan garb was girded to the knee;
Moved with its movement, Delos wandered free,
A woven island on a golden sea.
Great Ceres' daughter—now her Mother's joy—
Too soon to work her mournful soul's annoy—
Amidst those sisters, o'er the grassy meads
With equal grace, and equal step proceeds.
