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Ovid Metamorphoses - The Story of Glaucus and Scylla

Here, by the place secured, her steps she stayed,
And, trembling still, her lover's form surveyed.
His shape, his hue, her troubled sense appall,
And dropping locks that o'er his shoulders fall;
She sees his face divine, and manly brow,
End in a fish's wreathy tail below:

She sees, and doubts within her anxious mind,
Whether he comes of God, or monster kind.
This Glaucus soon perceived; and said ‘Forbear ‘

…………….

‘My birth, 'tis true, I owe to mortal race,
And I my self but late a mortal was:
Ev'n then in seas, and seas alone, I joy'd;
The seas my hours, and all my cares employed,
In meshes now the twinkling prey I drew;
Now skilfully the slender line I threw,
And silent sat the moving float to view.

……………….

My scaly prize, in order all displayed,
By number on the greensward there I laid, ……..
Strange to behold! yet what avails a lie?
I saw 'em bite the grass, as I sate by;…………
I paused, with wonder struck, while all my prey
Left their new master, and regained the sea.

…………….

Amazed, within my secret self I sought,
What God, what herb the miracle had wrought:
But sure no herbs have power like this, I cried;
And strait I plucked some neighbouring herbs, and tried.
Scarce had I bit, and proved the wondrous taste,
When strong convulsions shook my troubled breast;
I felt my heart grow fond of something strange,
And my whole Nature lab'ring with a change.

Restless I grew, and every place forsook,
And still upon the seas I bent my look.
Farewell for ever! farewell, land! I said;
And plunged amidst the waves my sinking head.
The gentle Powers, who that low empire keep,
Received me as a brother of the deep;

…………….

When I no longer found my self the same;
Then first this sea-green beard I felt to grow,
And these large honours on my spreading brow;
My long-descending locks the billows sweep,
And my broad shoulders cleave the yielding deep;
My fishy tail, my arms of azure hue,
And every part divinely changed, I view.
But what avail these useless honours now?
What joys can immortality bestow?
What, tho' our Nereids all my form approve?
What boots it, while fair Scylla scorns my love?