In imitation of the FRENCH.
N thofe cold climates, where the Sun appears
Unwillingly, and hides his face in tears,
A difinal vale lies in a defart ifle,
On which indulgent Heav'n did never fmile.
There a thick grove of aged Cypress trees,
Which none without an awful horror fees,
Into its wither'd arms, depriv'd of leaves,
Whole flocks of ill prefaging birds receives.
Poisons are all the plants that foil will bear,
And Winter is the only season there.
Millions of graves o'erfpread the fpacious field,
And fprings of blood a thoufand rivers yield;
Whose streams, opprefs'd with carcaffes and bones,
Instead of gentle murmurs, pour forth groans.
Within this vale a famous temple stands,
Old as the world itself, which it commands;
Round is its figure; and four iron gates
Divide Mankind, by order of the Fates.
Thither, in crouds, come to one common grave
The young, the old, the Monarch, and the flave.
Old age and pains, thofe evils man deplores,
Are rigid keepers of th' eternal doors;
All clad in mournful blacks, which fadly load
The facred walls of this obfcure abode:
And tapers, of a pitchy fubftance made,
With clouds of fmoke increase the difmal shade.
A monfter void of reafon and of fight, The Goddess is, who fways this realm of night: Her pow'r extends o'er all things that have breath, A cruel tyrant, and her name is Death. The fairest object of our wond'ring eyes Was newly offer'd up her facrifice; Th' adjoining places where the altar ftood, Yet blufhing with the fair ALMERIA's blood. When griev'd ORONTES, whofe unhappy flame Is known to all who e'er converse with fame, His mind poffefs'd by fury and despair, Within the facred temple made this prayer:
Great Deity! who in thy hands do'st bear
That iron fceptre which poor mortals fear;
Who, wanting eyes thyfelf, refpecteft none,
And neither spar'ft the laurel, nor the crown!
O thou, whom all mankind in vain withstand,
Each of whofe blood must one day stain thy hand!
O thou, who ev'ry eye that fees the light,
Clofeft for ever in the fhades of night!
Goddess, attend, and hearken to my grief,
To which thy pow'r alone can give relief.
Alas! I ask not to defer
my fate,
But wifh my hapless life a shorter date;
And that the earth would in its bowels hide
A wretch, whom Heav'n invades on ev'ry fide:
That from the fight of day I could remove,
And might have nothing left me but my love.
Thou only comforter of minds oppress'd;
The port where weary'd fpirits are at reft;
Conductor to Elyfium, take my life;
My breast I offer to thy facred knife:
So just a grace refuse not, nor defpife.
A willing, tho'a worthless facrifice.
Others (their frail and mortal state forgot)
Before thy altars are not to be brought
Without constraint; the noife of dying rage,
Heaps of the flain of ev'ry fex and age,
The blade all reeking in the gore it fhed,
With fever d heads and arms confus'dly spread;
The rapid flames of a perpetual fire,
The groans of wretches ready to expire:
This tragick scene in terror makes them live,
Till that is forc'd, which they fhould freely give;
Yielding unwillingly what Heav'n will have,
Their fears eclipfe the glory of their grave:
Before thy face they make indecent moan,
And feel a hundred deaths in fearing one:
Thy flame becomes unhallow'd in their breast,
And he a murderer, who was a Priest.
But against me thy strongest forces call,
And on my head let all the tempest fall;
No mean retreat shall any weakness show,
But calmly I'll expect the fatal blow;
My limbs not trembling, in my mind no fear
Plaints in my mouth, nor in my eyes a tear.
Think not that time, our wonted fure relief,
That univerfal cure for ev'ry grief,
Whose aid fo many lovers oft have found,
With like fuccefs can ever heal my wound:
Too weak the pow'r of nature, or of art,
Nothing but death can ease a broken heart.
And that thou may'ft behold my helpless state,
Learn the extreameft rigour of my fate.
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