While Phoebus thus the laws of fate reveal’d, Behold, the blood which stain’d the verdant field Is blood no longer; but a flower full blown, Far brighter than the Tyrian scarlet, shone: A lily’s form it took; its purple hue Was all that made a difference to the view: Nor stopp’d he here: the god upon its leaves The sad expression of his sorrow weaves; And to this hour the mournful purple wears Ai, Ai , inscribed in funeral characters. Nor are the Spartans, who so much are famed For virtue, of their Hyacinth ashamed, But still, with pompous wo and solemn state, The Hyacinthian feasts they yearly celebrate.