A beautiful youth, named Hyacinthus, is accidentally killed while playing at quoits with Apollo, who changes his blood into a flower hearing the name of his deceased friend.
Phoebus for thee too, Hyacinth, design’d A place among the gods, had fate been kind: Yet this he gave: as oft as wintry rains Are pass’d, and vernal breezes soothe the plains, From the green turf a purple flower you rise, And with your fragrant breath perfume the skies.
You, when alive, were Phoebus’ darling boy; In you he placed his hopes and fix’d his joy: Their god the Delphic priests consult in vain. Eurotas now he loves, and Sparta’s plain: His hands the use of bow and harp forget, And hold the dogs, or bear the corded net; O’er hanging cliffs swift he pursues the game; Each hour his pleasure, each augments his flame.