The royal prophet shook his hoary head, With snowy fillets bound, and sighing, said: “Thy memory errs not, prince; thou saw’st me then The happy father of so large a train: Behold me now, (such turns of chance befall The race of man!) almost bereft of all. For ah! what comfort can my son bestow, What help afford, to mitigate my wo! While far from hence, in Andros’ isle he reigns, (From him so named,) and there my place sustains. Him Delius prescience gave; the twice-born god A boon more wondrous on the maids bestow’d. Whate’er they touch’d, he gave them to transmute, (A gift past credit, and above their suit,) To Ceres, Bacchus, and Minerva’s fruit. How great their value, and how rich their use, Whose only touch such treasures could produce!