’Twas when the summer sun, at noon of day, Through glowing Cancer shot his burning ray, ’Twas then, the fav’rite stag, in cool retreat, Had sought a shelter from the scorching heat: Along the grass his weary limbs he laid, Inhaling freshness, from the breezy shade, When Cyparissus, with his pointed dart, Unknowing, pierced him to the panting heart; But when the youth, surprised, his error found, And saw him dying of the cruel wound, Himself he would have slain through desperate grief; What said not Phoebus, that might yield relief: To cease his mourning he the boy desired, Or mourn no more than such a loss required; But ho incessant grieved. At length address’d To the superior powers a last request; Praying, in expiation of his crime, Thenceforth to mourn to all succeeding time.