Is blood no longer; but a flower full blown
Far brighter than the Tyrian scarlet shone.
A Lily’s form it took; its purple hue
Was all that made a diff’rence to the view.
Nor stopp’d he here; the god upon its leaves
The sad expression of his sorrow leaves;
And to this hour the mournful purple wears
Ai, Ai, inscribed in funeral characters.
Nor are the Spartans, who so much are famed
For virtue, of their Hyacinth ashamed;