“The Naiads nursed an infant heretofore, That Citherea once to Hermes bore: From both the illustrious authors of his race The child was named, nor was it hard to trace Both the bright parents through the infant’s face. When fifteen years in Ida’s cool retreat The boy had told, he left his native seat, And sought fresh fountains in a foreign soil: The pleasure lessen’d the attending toil. With eager steps the Lycian fields he cross’d, And fields that border on the Lycian coast: A river here he view’d, so lovely bright, It show’d the bottom in a fairer light, Nor kept a sand conceal’d from human sight: The stream produced nor slimy ooze, nor weeds, Nor miry rushes, nor the spiky reeds, But dealt enriching moisture all around, The fruitful banks with cheerful verdure crown’d, And kept the spring eternal on the ground. A nymph presides, not practised in the chase, Nor skilful at the bow, nor at the race; Of all the blue-eyed daughters of the main, The only stranger to Diana’s train. Her sisters often, as ’tis said, would cry,