The Nymph is all into a Laurel gone; 



The smoothness of her skin remains alone. 



Yet Phcebus loves her still, and casting round 



Her bole his arms, some little warmth he found. 



The tree still panted in th' unfinish'd part; 



Not wholly vegetive, and heav'd her heart 



He fixt his lips upon the trembling rind; 



It swerv'd aside, and his embrace declin'd. 



To whom the God, t€ Because thou canst not be 



t€ My Mistress, I espouse thee for my Tree: 



" Be thou the prize of honour and renown, 



" The deathless Poet, and the Poe?n y crown. 



" Thou shalt the Roman fejlivals adorn, 



€€ And, after Poets, be by Victors worn. 



" Thou shalt returning Ccesars triumph grace; 



When pomps shall in a long procession pass. 



Wreath' d on the posts before his palace wait ; 

 " And be the sacred guardian of the gate. 

 " Secure from thunder, and unharmd by Jove, 

 " Unfading as tti immortal pow'rs above : 

 " And as the locks (^Phcebus are unshorn, 

 « So shall perpetual green thy boughs adorn." 

 The grateful Tree was pleas'd with what he said, 

 And shook the shady honours of her head. 



Ovid. 



(C 



<i 



March 15, the Sweet Violet (Viola odorata), flowers. 



The Violet, although blue, yet partakes of the sombre, suited to the season; and this 

 kind is of one uniform colour, without any markings; hence her metamorphosis is thus poeti- 

 cally depicted. 



This flower, so fame reports, was once a maid, 



Her name Ianthis, of Diana's train, 



The sweetest Nymph that ever trod the plain, 



Whom, while Pheraean flocks the Virgin fed, 



Apollo saw, and courted to his bed; 



But sued in vain; the timid Virgin fled 



To woods herself, and her complaints she bore, 



And sought Protection from Diana's pow'r, 



Who thus advis'd— " Be sure from mountains fly, 



rf Phcebus loves mountains, and an open sky." 



To vales and shady springs she fled amain, 



Beneath dark thickets sought to hide in vain; 



Phcebus her virtue and her flight admir'd, 



The more the Virgin fled, the more the God was fir'd. 



To Diana did the Nymph again repair, 



When Delia thus—" Since Beauty's such a snare, 



i: 



