the mariners cried on Hylas till the shorethen re-echoed “Hylas, Hylas!” soothedpasiphae with the love of her white bull—happy if cattle-kind had never been!—o ill-starred maid, what frenzy caught thy soulthe daughters too of Proetus filled the fieldswith their feigned lowings, yet no one of themof such unhallowed union e'er was fainas with a beast to mate, though many a timeon her smooth forehead she had sought for horns,and for her neck had feared the galling plough.O ill-starred maid! thou roamest now the hills,while on soft hyacinths he, his snowy sidereposing, under some dark ilex nowchews the pale herbage, or some heifer tracksamid the crowding herd. Now close, ye Nymphs,ye Nymphs of Dicte, close the forest-glades,if haply there may chance upon mine eyesthe white bull's wandering foot-prints: him belike