“Lychas, to thee alone my fate I owe, Who bore the gift, the cause of all my wo.” The youth all pale with shiv’ring fear was stung, And vain excuses falter’d on his tongue. Alcides snatch’d him, as with suppliant face He strove to clasp his knees, and beg for grace: He toss’d him o’er his head with airy course, And hurl’d with more than with an engine’s force: Far o’er the Euboean main aloof he flies, And hardens by degrees amid the skies. So show’ry drops, when chilly tempests blow, Thicken at first, then whiten into snow, In balls congeal’d the rolling fleeces bound, In solid hail result upon the ground. Thus, whirl’d with nervous force through distant air, The purple tide forsook his veins with fear; All moisture left his limbs. Transform’d to stone, In ancient days the craggy flint was known: Still in the Euboean waves his front he rears, Still the small rock in human form appears, And still the name of hapless Lychas bears.