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Ovid - Metamorphoses: Book The Fourth
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                   So sweet her frame, so exquisitely fine,
                   She seem`d a statue by a hand divine,
                   Had not the wind her waving tresses show`d,
                   And down her cheeks the melting sorrows flow`d.
                   Her faultless form the heroe`s bosom fires;
                   The more he looks, the more he still admires.
                   Th` admirer almost had forgot to fly,
                   And swift descended, flutt`ring from on high.
                   O! Virgin, worthy no such chains to prove,
                   But pleasing chains in the soft folds of love;
                   Thy country, and thy name (he said) disclose,
                   And give a true rehearsal of thy woes.
                     A quick reply her bashfulness refus`d,
                   To the free converse of a man unus`d.
                   Her rising blushes had concealment found
                   From her spread hands, but that her hands were
                       bound.
                   She acted to her full extent of pow`r,
                   And bath`d her face with a fresh, silent show`r.
                   But by degrees in innocence grown bold,
                   Her name, her country, and her birth she told:
                   And how she suffer`d for her mother`s pride,
                   Who with the Nereids once in beauty vy`d.
                   Part yet untold, the seas began to roar,
                   And mounting billows tumbled to the shore.
                   Above the waves a monster rais`d his head,
                   His body o`er the deep was widely spread:
                   Onward he flounc`d; aloud the virgin cries;
                   Each parent to her shrieks in shrieks replies:
                   But she had deepest cause to rend the skies.
                   Weeping, to her they cling; no sign appears
                   Of help, they only lend their helpless tears.
                   Too long you vent your sorrows, Perseus said,
                   Short is the hour, and swift the time of aid,
                   In me the son of thund`ring Jove behold,
                   Got in a kindly show`r of fruitful gold.
                   Medusa`s snaky head is now my prey,
                   And thro` the clouds I boldly wing my way.
                   If such desert be worthy of esteem,
                   And, if your daughter I from death redeem,
                   Shall she be mine? Shall it not then be thought,
                   A bride, so lovely, was too cheaply bought?
                   For her my arms I willingly employ,
                   If I may beauties, which I save, enjoy.
                   The parents eagerly the terms embrace:
                   For who would slight such terms in such a case?
                   Nor her alone they promise, but beside,
                   The dowry of a kingdom with the bride.
                     As well-rigg`d gallies, which slaves, sweating,
                       row,
                   With their sharp beaks the whiten`d ocean plough;
                   So when the monster mov`d, still at his back
                   The furrow`d waters left a foamy track.
                   Now to the rock he was advanc`d so nigh,
                   Whirl`d from a sling a stone the space would fly.
                   Then bounding, upwards the brave Perseus sprung,
                   And in mid air on hov`ring pinions hung.
                   His shadow quickly floated on the main;
                   The monster could not his wild rage restrain,
                   But at the floating shadow leap`d in vain.
                   As when Jove`s bird, a speckl`d serpent spies,
                   Which in the shine of Phoebus basking lies,
                   Unseen, he souses down, and bears away,
                   Truss`d from behind, the vainly-hissing prey.
                   To writh his neck the labour nought avails,
                   Too deep th` imperial talons pierce his scales.
                   Thus the wing`d heroe now descends, now soars,
                   And at his pleasure the vast monster gores.
                   Full in his back, swift stooping from above,
                   The crooked sabre to its hilt he drove.
                   The monster rag`d, impatient of the pain,
                   First bounded high, and then sunk low again.
                   Now, like a savage boar, when chaf`d with wounds,
                   And bay`d with opening mouths of hungry hounds,
                   He on the foe turns with collected might,
                   Who still eludes him with an airy flight;
                   And wheeling round, the scaly armour tries
                   Of his thick sides; his thinner tall now plies:
                   `Till from repeated strokes out gush`d a flood,
                   And the waves redden`d with the streaming blood.
                   At last the dropping wings, befoam`d all o`er,
                   With flaggy heaviness their master bore:
                   A rock he spy`d, whose humble head was low,
                   Bare at an ebb, but cover`d at a flow.
                   A ridgy hold, he, thither flying, gain`d,
                   And with one hand his bending weight sustain`d;
                   With th` other, vig`rous blows he dealt around,
                   And the home-thrusts the expiring monster own`d.
                   In deaf`ning shouts the glad applauses rise,
                   And peal on peal runs ratling thro` the skies.
                   The saviour-youth the royal pair confess,
                   And with heav`d hands their daughter`s bridegroom
                       bless.
                   The beauteous bride moves on, now loos`d from
                       chains,
                   The cause, and sweet reward of all the heroe`s
                       pains,
                     Mean-time, on shore triumphant Perseus stood,
                   And purg`d his hands, smear`d with the monster`s
                       blood:
                   Then in the windings of a sandy bed
                   Compos`d Medusa`s execrable head.
                   But to prevent the roughness, leafs he threw,
                   And young, green twigs, which soft in waters grew,
                   There soft, and full of sap; but here, when lay`d,
                   Touch`d by the head, that softness soon decay`d.
                   The wonted flexibility quite gone,
                   The tender scyons harden`d into stone.
                   Fresh, juicy twigs, surpriz`d, the Nereids brought,
                   Fresh, juicy twigs the same contagion caught.
                   The nymphs the petrifying seeds still keep,
                   And propagate the wonder thro` the deep.
                   The pliant sprays of coral yet declare
                   Their stiff`ning Nature, when expos`d to air.
                   Those sprays, which did, like bending osiers, move,
                   Snatch`d from their element, obdurate prove,
                   And shrubs beneath the waves, grow stones above.
                     The great immortals grateful Perseus prais`d,
                   And to three Pow`rs three turfy altars rais`d.
                   To Hermes this; and that he did assign
                   To Pallas: the mid honours, Jove, were thine,
                   He hastes for Pallas a white cow to cull,
                   A calf for Hermes, but for Jove a bull.
                   Then seiz`d the prize of his victorious fight,
                   Andromeda, and claim`d the nuptial rite.
                   Andromeda alone he greatly sought,
                   The dowry kingdom was not worth his thought.
                     Pleas`d Hymen now his golden torch displays;
                   With rich oblations fragrant altars blaze,
                   Sweet wreaths of choicest flow`rs are hung on high,
                   And cloudless pleasure smiles in ev`ry eye.
                   The melting musick melting thoughts inspires,
                   And warbling songsters aid the warbling lyres.
                   The palace opens wide in pompous state,
                   And by his peers surrounded, Cepheus sate.
                   A feast was serv`d, fit for a king to give,
                   And fit for God-like heroes to receive.
                   The banquet ended, the gay, chearful bowl
                   Mov`d round, and brighten`d, and enlarg`d each
                       soul.
                   Then Perseus ask`d, what customs there obtain`d,
                   And by what laws the people were restrain`d.
                   Which told; the teller a like freedom takes,
                   And to the warrior his petition makes,
                   To know, what arts had won Medusa`s snakes.
   The Story of      The heroe with his just request complies,
   Medusa`s Head   Shows, how a vale beneath cold Atlas lies,
                   Where, with aspiring mountains fenc`d around,
                   He the two daughters of old Phorcus found.
                   Fate had one common eye to both assign`d,
                   Each saw by turns, and each by turns was blind.
                   But while one strove to lend her sister sight,
                   He stretch`d his hand, and stole their mutual
                       light,
                   And left both eyeless, both involv`d in night.
                   Thro` devious wilds, and trackless woods he past,
                   And at the Gorgon-seats arriv`d at last:
                   But as he journey`d, pensive he survey`d,
                   What wasteful havock dire Medusa made.
                   Here, stood still breathing statues, men before;
                   There, rampant lions seem`d in stone to roar.
                   Nor did he, yet affrighted, quit the field,
                   But in the mirror of his polish`d shield
                   Reflected saw Medusa slumbers take,
                   And not one serpent by good chance awake.
                   Then backward an unerring blow he sped,
                   And from her body lop`d at once her head.
                   The gore prolifick prov`d; with sudden force
                   Sprung Pegasus, and wing`d his airy course.
                     The Heav`n-born warrior faithfully went on,
                   And told the num`rous dangers which he run.
                   What subject seas, what lands he had in view,
                   And nigh what stars th` advent`rous heroe flew.
                   At last he silent sate; the list`ning throng
                   Sigh`d at the pause of his delightful tongue.
                   Some beg`d to know, why this alone should wear,
                   Of all the sisters, such destructive hair.
                     Great Perseus then: With me you shall prevail,
                   Worth the relation, to relate a tale.
                   Medusa once had charms; to gain her love
                   A rival crowd of envious lovers strove.
                   They, who have seen her, own, they ne`er did trace
                   More moving features in a sweeter face.
                   Yet above all, her length of hair, they own,
                   In golden ringlets wav`d, and graceful shone.
                   Her Neptune saw, and with such beauties fir`d,
                   Resolv`d to compass, what his soul desir`d.
                   In chaste Minerva`s fane, he, lustful, stay`d,
                   And seiz`d, and rifled the young, blushing maid.
                   The bashful Goddess turn`d her eyes away,
                   Nor durst such bold impurity survey;
                   But on the ravish`d virgin vengeance takes,
                   Her shining hair is chang`d to hissing snakes.
                   These in her Aegis Pallas joys to bear,
                   The hissing snakes her foes more sure ensnare,
                   Than they did lovers once, when shining hair.

                             The End of the Fourth Book.
                             
                             
                Translated into English verse under the direction of
                Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
                William Congreve and other eminent hands
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