In vain Physicians would beftow their Aid,
Vain all their Art, and ufelefs all their Trade;
And they, ev'n they, who fleeting Life recall,
Feel the fame Pow'rs, and undiftinguifh'd fall.
If any proves fo daring to attend
His fick Companion, or his darling Friend,
Th' Officious Wretch fucks in contagious Breath,
And with his Friend does fympathize in Death.
And now the Care and Hopes of Life are paft,
They please their Fancies, and indulge their Taft;
At Brooks and Streams, regardless of their Shame,
Each Sex, promifcuous, ftrives to quench their Flame;
Nor do they ftrive in vain to quench it there,
For Thirft and Life at once extinguish'd are.
Thus in the Brooks the dying Bodies fink,
But heedlefs ftill the rafh Survivers drink.
So much uneafie Down the Wretches hate, They fly their Beds to struggle with their Fate; But if decaying Strength forbids to rife, The Victim crawls and rolls 'till on the Ground he lies. Each fhuns his Bed, as each wou'd fhun his Tomb, And thinks th' Infection only lodg'd at home.
Here one, with fainting Steps, does flowly creep O'er Heaps of Dead, and ftraight augments a Heap; Another, while his Strength and Tongue prevail'd, Bewails his Friend, and falls himself bewail'd: This with imploring Looks furveys the Skies, The laft dear Office of his closing Eyes, But finds the Heav'ns implacable, and dies. What now, ah! what employ'd my troubled Mind? But only hopes my Subjects Fate to find. What place foe'er my weeping Eyes furvey, There in lamented Heaps the Vulgar lay; As Acorns fcatter when the Winds prevail, Or mellow Fruits from fhaken Branches fall. You fee that Dome which rears its Front fo high 'Tis facred to the Monarch of the Sky;
How many there, with unregarded Tears,
And fruitless Vows, fent up fuccefslefs Pray'rs?
There Fathers for expiring Sons implor'd,
And there the Wife bewail'd her gasping Lord;
With Pious Off'rings they'd appease the Skies,
But they, ere yet th' attoning Vapours rise,
Before the Altars fall, themselves a Sacrifice :
They fall, while yet their Hands the Gums contain,
The Gums furviving, but their Offrers flain.
The destin'd Ox, with holy Garlands Crown'd,
Prevents the Blow, and feels an unexpected Wound:
When I my felf invok'd the Pow'r Divine,
To drive this fatal Peft from Me and Mine;
When now the Priest with Hands uplifted ftood,
Prepar'd to ftrike, and shed the facred Blood,
The Gods themselves the mortal Stroke bestow,
The Victim falls, but They impart the Blow :
Scarce was the Knife with the pale Purple ftain'd,
And no Prefages cou'd be then obtain'd
From putrid Entrails, where th' Infection reign'd.
Death ftalk'd around with fuch refiftlefs fway,
The Temples of the Gods his Force obey,
And Suppliants feel his Stroke while yet they pray.
Go now, faid he, your Deities implore
For fruitless Aid, for I defie their Pow'r.
Then with a curft malicious Joy furvey'd
The very Altars, ftain'd with Trophies of the Dead.
The rest grown mad, and frantick with Despair,
Urge their own Fate, and so prevent the Fear.
Strange madness that, when Death pursu'd so fast,
T'anticipate the Blow with impious hafte.
No decent Honour to their Urns are paid,
Nor could the Graves receive the num'rous Dead;
For or they lay unbury'd on the Ground,
Or unadorn'd a needy Fun'ral found:
All Rev'rence paft, the fainting Wretches fight
For Fun'ral Piles which were anothers Right.
Unmourn'd they fall, for who furviv'd to mourn?
And Sires and Mothers unlamented burn;
Parents and Sons sustain an equal Fate,
And wand'ring Ghosts their kindred Shadows meet.
The Dead a larger space of Ground require,
Nor are the Trees fufficient for the Fire.
Desparing under Grief's oppreffive weight,
And funk by these tempeftuous Blafts of Fate,
Jove, faid I, if common Fame fays true,
If e're gina gave thofe Joys to you,
If e're you lay enclos'd in her Embrace,
Fond of her Charms and eager to poffefs;
O Father, if you do not yet disclaim
Paternal Care, nor yet difown the Name;
Grant my Petitions, and with speed restore
My Subjects num'rous as they were before,
Or make me Partner of the Fate they bore.
I spoke, and glorious Lightning fhone around,
And ratling Thunder gave a profp❜rous found;
So let it be, and may these Omens prove
A Pledge, faid I, of your returning Love.
By chance a rev'rend Oak was near the Place,
Sacred to Jove, and of Dodona's Race,
Where frugal Ants laid up their Winter Meat,
Whofe little Bodies bear a mighty Weight:
We faw them march along, and hide their store,
And much admir'd their Number, and their Pow'r ;
Admir'd at firft, but after envy'd more.
Full of Amazement, thus to Jove I pray'd,
O grant, fince thus my Subjects are decay'd,
As many Subjects to fupply the Dead.
I pray'd, and strange Convulfions mov'd the Oak,
Which murmur'd, tho' by ambient Winds unshook:
My trembling Hands, and ftiff erected Hair,
Expreft all Tokens of uncommon Fear;
Yet both the Earth and facred Oak 1 kift,
And scarce cou'd hope, yet ftill I hop'd the best
For Wretches, whatsoe'er the Fates divine,
Expound all Omens to their own Defign.
But now 'twas Night, when ev'n Distraction wears A pleasing Look, and Dreams beguile our Cares.
Lo! the fame Oak appears before my Eyes,
Nor alter'd in its Shape, nor former Size;
As many Ants the num'rous Branches bear,
The fame their Labour, and their frugal Care;
The Branches too a like Commotion found,
And shook th' induftrious Creatures on the Ground,
Who, by degrees, (what's fcarce to be believ'd)
A nobler Form, and larger Bulk receiv'd,
And on the Earth walk'd an unufual Pace
With many Strides, and an erected Face;
Their num❜rous Legs, and former Colour loft,
The Infects cou'd a Human Figure boast.
I wake, and waking find my Cares again,
And to the unperforming Gods complain,
And call their Promise and Pretences vain.
Yet in my Court I heard the murm'ring Voice
Of Strangers, and a mixt uncommon Noise:
But I fufpected all was ftill a Dream,
'Till Telamon to my Apartment came,
Op'ning the Door with an impetuous hafte,
O come, faid he, and fee your Faith and Hopes furpast:
I follow, and, confus'd with Wonder, view
Thofe Shapes which my presaging Slumbers drew:
I faw, and own'd, and call'd them Subjects; they
Confeft my Pow'r, fubmiffive to my Sway.
To Jove, Reftorer of my Race decay'd,
My Vows were firft with due Oblations paid.
1 then divide with an impartial Hand
My empty City, and my ruin'd Land,
To give the New-born Youth an equal share,
And call them Myrmidons, from what they were.
You saw their Perfons, and they still retain
The Thrift of Ants, tho' now transform'd to Men.
A Frugal People, and inur'd to fweat,
Lab'ring to gain, and keeping what they get.
Thefe, equal both in Strength and Years, thall join
Their willing Aid, and follow your Delign,
With the first Southern Gale that shall prefent
To fill your Sails, and favour your Intent.
To Doctor GIBBON S.
By Mr CHARLES HOPKINS.
HE Fires that fell in Ages paft from Heav'n,
Life, the most active, moft exalted Fire
The great creating Godhead could inspire,
Breath'd into Man, while yet the World was new,
Is now committed to the Care of you:
How you discharge your Truft, maintain your Poft,
Tho' you are filent, I have cause to boast.
Again, the rifing Muse expands her Wings,
Again prepares to mount, and mounting fings:
Again wou'd celebrate fome facred Name,
And chufes you, who rais'd her, for her Theme.
Ye confcious Poets, be no longer vain,
Confefs your Weakness, and your Pride contain ;
Quit your bold Claim, and end your idle Strife,
It is not yours to give Immortal Life.
Ev'n you, to him, on all occafions fly,
Without whofe Aid you and your Muses die.
His Succour is implor'd, where Wit declines,
Where Lovers languish, and where Beauty pines ;
Where Monarchs faint beneath the weight of Crowns,
And ficken in their Robes on Silver Thrones:
His facred Art, their facred Lives fuftains,
And strengthens them again to guide the Reins.
As Iris enter'd with her Golden Beams
The Cave of Sleep, and chas'd away the Dreams;
Diseases seem to fly at his approach,
And circling Blood keeps measure at his touch.
So leaps the Lover's Heart, fo beats and moves,
When he lyes folded in her Arms he loves.
So, influenc'd by the Moon, wide Oceans roll:
And fo the Needle trembles to the Pole.
O Gibbons! I am rais'd; there's nought I fee
Above my reach, when thus reviv'd by thee,
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