An ancient forest in Thessalia grows; Which Tempe's pleasing valley does inclose: Through this the rapid Peneus take his course; From Pindus rolling with impetuous force; Mists from the river's mighty fall arise: And deadly damps inclose the cloudy skies: Perpetual fogs are hanging o'er the wood; And sounds of waters deaf the neighbourhood. Deep, in a rocky cave, he makes abode (A mansion proper for a mourning God). Here he gives audience; issuing out decrees To rivers, his dependant deities. On this occasion hither they resort; To pay their homage, and to make their court. All doubtful, whether to congratulate His daughter's honour, or lament her fate. Sperchaeus, crown'd with poplar, first appears; Then old Apidanus came crown'd with years: Enipeus turbulent, Amphrysos tame; And Aeas last with lagging waters came. Then, of his kindred brooks, a num'rous throng Condole his loss; and bring their urns along. Not one was wanting of the wat'ry train, That fill'd his flood, or mingled with the main: But Inachus, who in his cave, alone, Wept not another's losses, but his own, For his dear Io, whether stray'd, or dead, To him uncertain, doubtful tears he shed. He sought her through the world; but sought in vain; And no where finding, rather fear'd her slain. Her, just returning from her father's brook, Jove had beheld, with a desiring look: And, Oh fair daughter of the flood, he said, Worthy alone of Jove's imperial bed, Happy whoever shall those charms possess; The king of Gods (nor is thy lover less) Invites thee to yon cooler shades; to shun The scorching rays of the meridian sun. Nor shalt thou tempt the dangers of the grove Alone, without a guide; thy guide is Jove. No puny Pow'r, but he whose high command Is unconfin'd, who rules the seas and land; And tempers thunder in his awful hand, Oh fly not: for she fled from his embrace O'er Lerna's pastures: he pursu'd the chace Along the shades of the Lyrcaean plain; At length the God, who never asks in vain, Involv'd with vapours, imitating night, Both Air, and Earth; and then suppress'd her flight, And mingling force with love, enjoy'd the full delight. Mean-time the jealous Juno, from on high, Survey'd the fruitful fields of Arcady; And wonder'd that the mist shou'd over-run The face of day-light, and obscure the sun. No nat'ral cause she found, from brooks, or bogs, Or marshy lowlands, to produce the fogs; Then round the skies she sought for Jupiter, Her faithless husband; but no Jove was there: Suspecting now the worst, Or I, she said, Am much mistaken, or am much betray'd. With fury she precipitates her flight: Dispels the shadows of dissembled night; And to the day restores his native light. Th' Almighty Leacher, careful to prevent The consequence, foreseeing her descent, Transforms his mistress in a trice; and now In Io's place appears a lovely cow. So sleek her skin, so faultless was her make, Ev'n Juno did unwilling pleasure take To see so fair a rival of her love; And what she was, and whence, enquir'd of Jove: Of what fair herd, and from what pedigree? The God, half caught, was forc'd upon a lye: And said she sprung from Earth. She took the word, And begg'd the beauteous heyfer of her lord. What should he do? 'twas equal shame to Jove Or to relinquish, or betray his love: Yet to refuse so slight a gift, wou'd be But more t' increase his consort's jealousie: Thus fear, and love, by turns, his heart assail'd; And stronger love had sure, at length, prevail'd: But some faint hope remain'd, his jealous queen Had not the mistress through the heyfer seen. The cautious Goddess, of her gift possest, Yet harbour'd anxious thoughts within her breast; As she who knew the falshood of her Jove; And justly fear'd some new relapse of love. Which to prevent, and to secure her care, To trusty Argus she commits the fair. The head of Argus (as with stars the skies) Was compass'd round, and wore an hundred eyes. But two by turns their lids in slumber steep; The rest on duty still their station keep; Nor cou'd the total constellation sleep. Thus, ever present, to his eyes, and mind, His charge was still before him, tho' behind. In fields he suffer'd her to feed by Day, But when the setting sun to night gave way, The captive cow he summon'd with a call; And drove her back, and ty'd her to the stall. On leaves of trees, and bitter herbs she fed, Heav'n was her canopy, bare earth her bed: So hardly lodg'd, and to digest her food, She drank from troubled streams, defil'd with mud. Her woeful story fain she wou'd have told, With hands upheld, but had no hands to hold. Her head to her ungentle keeper bow'd, She strove to speak, she spoke not, but she low'd: Affrighted with the noise, she look'd around, And seem'd t' inquire the author of the sound. Once on the banks where often she had play'd (Her father's banks), she came, and there survey'd Her alter'd visage, and her branching head; And starting, from her self she wou'd have fled. Her fellow nymphs, familiar to her eyes, Beheld, but knew her not in this disguise. Ev'n Inachus himself was ignorant; And in his daughter, did his daughter want. She follow'd where her fellows went, as she Were still a partner of the company: They stroak her neck; the gentle heyfer stands, And her neck offers to their stroaking hands. Her father gave her grass; the grass she took; And lick'd his palms, and cast a piteous look; And in the language of her eyes, she spoke. She wou'd have told her name, and ask'd relief, But wanting words, in tears she tells her grief. Which, with her foot she makes him understand; And prints the name of Io in the sand. Ah wretched me! her mournful father cry'd; She, with a sigh, to wretched me reply'd: About her milk-white neck, his arms he threw; And wept, and then these tender words ensue. And art thou she, whom I have sought around The world, and have at length so sadly found? So found, is worse than lost: with mutual words Thou answer'st not, no voice thy tongue affords: But sighs are deeply drawn from out thy breast; And speech deny'd, by lowing is express'd. Unknowing, I prepar'd thy bridal bed; With empty hopes of happy issue fed. But now the husband of a herd must be Thy mate, and bell'wing sons thy progeny. Oh, were I mortal, death might bring relief: But now my God-head but extends my grief: Prolongs my woes, of which no end I see, And makes me curse my immortality! More had he said, but fearful of her stay, The starry guardian drove his charge away, To some fresh pasture; on a hilly height He sate himself, and kept her still in sight. The Eyes of Argus transform'd into a Peacock's Train Now Jove no longer cou'd her suff'rings bear; But call'd in haste his airy messenger, The son of Maia, with severe decree To kill the keeper, and to set her free. With all his harness soon the God was sped, His flying hat was fastned on his head, Wings on his heels were hung, and in his hand He holds the vertue of the snaky wand. The liquid air his moving pinions wound, And, in the moment, shoot him on the ground. Before he came in sight, the crafty God His wings dismiss'd, but still retain'd his rod: That sleep-procuring wand wise Hermes took, But made it seem to sight a sherpherd's hook. With this, he did a herd of goats controul; Which by the way he met, and slily stole. Clad like a country swain, he pip'd, and sung; And playing, drove his jolly troop along. With pleasure, Argus the musician heeds; But wonders much at those new vocal reeds. And whosoe'er thou art, my friend, said he, Up hither drive thy goats, and play by me: This hill has browz for them, and shade for thee. The God, who was with ease induc'd to climb, Began discourse to pass away the time; And still betwixt, his tuneful pipe he plies; And watch'd his hour, to close the keeper's eyes. With much ado, he partly kept awake; Not suff'ring all his eyes repose to take: And ask'd the stranger, who did reeds invent, And whence began so rare an instrument?