Now morn begins to dawn, the sun’s bright fire Gilds the high mountains, and the youths retire; Nor stay’d they till the troubled stream subsides, And in its bounds with peaceful current glides; But Achelous in his oosy bed Deep hides his brow deform’d, and rustic head; No real wound the victor’s triumph show’d, But his lost honours grieved the watery god; Yet ev’n that loss the willow’s leaves o’erspread, And verdant reeds, in garlands, bind his head.