Dark matted elf-locks dangling on her brow,
Filthy, and foul, a loathfome burden grow :
Ghaftly, and frightful-pale her face is feen,
Unknown to chearful day, and skies ferene:
But when the stars are veil'd, when storms arife,
And the blue forky flame at midnight flies,

825

Then, forth from graves, fhe takes her wicked way,
And thwarts the glancing lightnings as they play. 830
Where-e'er the breathes, blue poifons round her
fpread,

The withering grafs avows her fatal tread,
And drooping Ceres hangs her blasted head.
Nor holy rites, nor fuppliant prayer she knows,
Nor feeks the gods with facrifice, or vows:
Whate'er fhe offers is the fpoil of urns,
And funeral fire upon her altars burns;
Nor needs the fend a fecond voice on high,
Scar'd at the first, the trembling gods comply.
Oft in the grave the living has she laid,
And bid reviving bodies leave the dead :
Oft at the funeral pile the feeks her prey,
And bears the fmoking ashes warm away;
Snatches fome burning bone, or flaming brand,
And tears the torch from the fad father's hand;
Seizes the fhroud's loofe fragments as they fly,
And picks the coal where clammy juices fry.
But when the dead in marble tombs are plac'd,
Where the moist carcafe by degrees shall waste,
There, greedily on every part the flies,
Strips the dry nails, and digs the gory eyes.

835

840

845

850

Her

855

}

⚫860

Her teeth from gibbets gnaw the strangling noose,
And from the crofs dead murderers unloofe:
Her charms the ufe of fun-dry'd marrow find,
And hufky entrails wither'd in the wind;
Oft drops the ropy gore upon her tongue,
With cordy finews oft her jaws are strung,
And thus fufpended oft the filthy hag has hung.
Where-e'er the battle bleeds, and slaughter lies,
Thither, preventing birds and beasts, she hies
Nor then content to feize the ready prey,
From their fell jaws fhe tears their food away :
She marks the hungry wolf's pernicious tooth,
And joys to rend the morfel from his mouth.
Nor ever yet remorse could stop her hand,
When human gore her cursed rites demand.
Whether fome tender infant, yet unborn,
From the lamenting mother's fide is torn;
Whether her purpose asks some bolder shade,
And by her knife, the ghoft he wants, is made; 870
Or whether, curious in the choice of blood,
She catches the first gushing of the flood;

All mifchief is of ufe, and every murder good.
When blooming youths in early manhood die,
She stands a terrible attendant by;

The downy growth from off their cheeks fhe tears,
Or cuts left-handed fome felected hairs.

Oft when in death her gafping kindred lay,
Some pious office would the feign to pay;

865

}

875

And while clofe hovering o'er the bed she hung, 880 Bit the pale lips, and cropt the quivering tongue;

Then, in hoarfe murmurs, ere the ghoft could go,
Mutter'd fome meffage to the fhades below.

A fame like this around the region spread,

To prove her power, the younger Pompey led.

Now half her fable courfe the night had run,
And low beneath us roll'd the beamy fun;
When the vile youth in filence cross`d the plain,
Attended by his wonted worthlefs train.

885

895

Through ruins wafte and old, long wandering round, S90
Lonely upon a rock, the hag they found.
There, as it chanc'd, in fullen mood she fate,
Pondering upon the war's approaching fate:
At that fame hour, fhe ran new numbers o'er,
And spells unheard by hell itself before;
Fearful, left wavering destiny might change,
And bid the war in diftant regions range.
She charm'd Pharfalia's field with early care,
To keep the warriors and the flaughter there.
So may her impious arts in triumph reign,
And riot in the plenty of the slain:
So, many a royal ghoft fhe may command,
Mangle dead heroes with a ruthless hand,
And rob of many an urn Hefperia's mourning land.
Already fhe enjoys the dreadful field,

And thinks what spoils the rival chiefs shall yield.;
With what fell rage each corfe she shall invade,
And fly rapacious on the prostrate dead.

To her, a lowly fuppliant, thus begun
The noble Pompey's much unworthy son :
Hail mighty mistress of Hæmonian arts,
To whom ftern Fate her dark decrees imparts;

900

}

905

910

At

At thy approving, bids her purpose stand,
Or alters it at thy rever'd command.
From thee, my humbler awful hopes prefume

915

To learn my father's, and my country's doom:
Nor think this grace to one unworthy done,

When thou shalt know me for great Pompey's fon;
With him, all fortunes am I born to fhare,
His ruin's partner, or his empire's heir.

Let not blind chance for ever wavering ftand,
And awe us with her unrefolving hand:

I own my mind unequal to the weight,

Nor can I bear the pangs of doubtful fate:
Let it be certain what we have to fear,
And then-no matter- -Let the time draw near.
Oh let thy charms this truth from heaven compel,
Or force the dreadful Stygian gods to tell.
Call death, all pale and meagre, from below,
And from herself her fatal purpose know;
Conftrain'd by thee, the phantom shall declare
Whom the decrees to ftrike, and whom to fpare.
Nor ever can thy skill divine foresee,
Through the blind maze of long futurity,
Events more worthy of thy arts, and thee.

920

925

930

Pleas'd that her magic fame diffusely flies,

Thus, with a horrid fmile, the hag replies.

Hadst thou, oh noble youth, my aid implor'd,

For any lefs decifion of the fword;

936

The gods, unwilling, fhould my power confefs, 940
And crown thy wishes with a full fuccefs.

Hadft thou defir'd fome fingle friend to fave,
Long had my charms withheld him from the

grave:

Or would thy hate fome foe this instant doom,

He dies, though heaven decrees him years to come. 945
But when effects are to their caufes chain'd,
From everlasting, mightily, ordain'd;
When all things labour for one certain end,
And on one action centre and depend :
Then far behind we own our arts are caft,
And magic is by fortune's power surpass'd.
Howe'er, if yet thy foul can be content,
Only to know that undisclos'd event;

950

My potent charms o'er nature shall prevail,

And from a thousand mouths extort the tale :

955

This truth the fields, the floods, the rocks, shall tell,

The thunder of high heaven, or groans of hell :
Though, ftill, more kindly oracles remain,
Among the recent deaths of yonder plain.
Of these a corse our mystic rites shall raise,
As yet unfhrunk by Titan's parching blaze;
So fhall no maim the vocal pipes confound,

960

But the fad fhade shall breathe, distinct in human found.
While yet she spoke, a double darkness spread,
Black clouds and murky fogs involve her head,
While o'er th' unbury'd heaps her footsteps tread.
Wolves howl'd, and fled where-e'er she took her way,
And hungry vultures left the mangled prey;
The favage race, abash'd, before her yield,
And while fhe culls her prophet, quit the field.
To various carcafes by turns fhe flies,
And, griping with her gory fingers, tries;
Till one of perfect organs can be found,
And fibrous lungs uninjur'd by a wound.

970

of