Flew in his face with violent recoil.
Both faint, both pale and breathless now appear,
The boy with pain, the am’rous god with fear.
He ran, and rais’d him bleeding from the ground,
Chafes his cold limbs, and wipes the fatal wound:
Then herbs of noblest juice in vain applies;
The wound is mortal, and his skill defies.”
* * * * * * * *
“While Phœbus thus the laws of fate reveal’d,
Behold the blood which stained the verdant field