The pious Virgin's voice, with terror choak'd,
Unfinish'd left her pray'r. Forth, from the shade
Of the surrounding thicket, rush'd a Knight,
In shining armour clad, borne on a steed
Who seem'd to scorn the earth, his light heel pass'd,
As though  element had been the air:
Swift, as the breath of fierce Euroclydon
He bore his master to the spangled lake,
Whose borders, by OSMIDA's knee still press'd,
In thousand glowing colours bloom'd around her,
In thousand scents perfum'd the tranquil air.