He gently march’d along, and by degrees Left the dry meadow, and approach’d the seas, Where now he dips his hoofs and wets his thighs, Now plunges in, and carries off the prize. The frighted nymph looks backward on the shore, And hears the tumbling billows round her roar; But still she holds him fast; one hand is borne Upon his back, the other grasps a horn; Her train of ruffling garments flies behind, Swells in the air, and hovers in the wind.

Through storms and tempests he the virgin bore, And lands her safe on the Dictaean shore; Where now, in his divinest form array’d, In his true shape he captivates the maid, Who gazes on him, and with wond’ring eyes Beholds the new majestic figure rise, His glowing features, and celestial light, And all the god discover’d to her sight.