Such is the burst of bellowing Ætna's found,
When fair Sicilia's pastures thake around;
Such from Inarimè Typhoeus roars,
While rattling rocks beftrew Campania's fhores.
The liftening god, ftill ready with replies,
To none his aid, or oracle, denies ;
Yet, wife and righteous ever, scorns to hear
The fool's fond wishes, or the guilty's prayer;
Though vainly in repeated vows they trust,
None e'er find grace before him, but the just.
Oft to a banish'd, wandering, houfelefs race,
The facred dictates have affign'd a place.
Oft from the strong he faves the weak in war :
This truth, ye Salaminian feas, declare!
And heals the barren land, and peftilential air.
Of all the wants with which this age is curt,
The Delphic filence furely is the worst.
But tyrants, justly fearful of their doom,
Forbid the gods to tell us what 's to come.
Mean-while, the prophetess may well rejoice,
And bless the ceafing of the facred voice :
Since death too oft her holy task attends,
And immature her dreadful labour ends.
Torn by the fierce distracting rage she springs,
And dies beneath the god for whom the fings.
These filent caves, thefe Tripods long unmov'd,
Anxious for Rome, inquiring Appius prov'd:
He bids the guardian of the dread abode
Send in the trembling prieftefs to the god.
The reverend fire the Latian chief obey'd,
And fudden feiz'd the unfufpecting maid,
Where careless in the peaceful grove she stray'd.
Dismay'd, aghast, and pale, he drags her on;
She ftops, and strives the fatal task to shun:
Subdued by force, to fraud and art she flies,
And thus to turn the Roman's purpose tries :
What curious hopes thy wandering fancy move, 185
The filent Delphic oracle to prove?
In vain, Aufonian Appius, art thou come;
Long has our Phœbus and his cave been dumb.
Whether, difdaining us, the facred voice
Has made fome other distant land its choice;
Or whether, when the fierce barbarians' fires
Low in the duft had laid our lofty fpires,
In heaps the mouldering ashes heavy rod,
And chok'd the channels of the breathing god:
Or whether heaven no longer gives replies,
But bids the Sibyls mystic verse suffice;
Or, if he deigns not this bad age to bear,
And holds the world unworthy of his care;
Whate er the caufe, our god has long been mute,
And anfwers not to any fuppliant's fuit.
But, ah! too well her artifice is known,
Her fears confefs the god, whom they disown.
Howe'er, each rite the feemingly prepares ;
A fillet gathers up her foremost hairs;
While the white wreath and bays her temples bind, 205 And knit the loofer locks which flow behind.
Sudden, the ftronger prieft, though yet she strives,
The lingering maid within the temple drives :
But ftill the fears, ftill fhuns the dreadful shrine,
Lags in the outer space, and feigns the rage divine. 210
But far unlike the god, her calmer breast
No ftrong enthufiaftic throes confeft;
No terrors in her starting hairs were seen,
To cast from off her brow the wreathing green;
No broken accents half obstructed hung,
Nor fwelling murmurs roll her labouring tongue.
From her fierce jaws no founding horrors come,
No thunders bellow through the working foam,
Torend the fpacious cave, and shake the vaulted dome.
Too plain, the peaceful groves and fane betray'd 220
The wily, fearful, god-diffembling maid.
The furious Roman foon the fraud efpy'd,
And, Hope not thou to 'fcape my rage, he cry'd;
Sore fhalt thou rue thy fond deceit, profane,
(The gods and Appius are not mock'd in vain) Unless thou cease thy mortal founds to tell,
Unless thou plunge thee in the mystic cell,
Unless the gods themselves reveal the doom,
Which shall befall the warring world and Rome.
He fpoke, and, aw'd, by the fuperior dread,
The trembling priestess to the Tripod fled :
Close to the holy breathing vent fhe cleaves,
And largely the unwonted god receives.
Nor age the potent spirit had decay'd,
But with full force he fills the heaving maid;
Nor e'er fo ftrong infpiring Pæan came,
Nor ftretch'd, as now, her agonizing frame :
The mortal mind driv'n out forfook her breast,
And the fole godhead every part possest.
Now fwell her veins, her turgid finews rise,
And bounding frantic through the cave fhe flies;
Her bristling locks the wreathy fillet scorn,
And her fierce feet the tumbling Tripods fpurn.
Now wild fhe dances o'er the vacant fane,
And whirls her giddy head, and bellows with the pain. Nor yet the lefs th' avenging wrathful god
Pours in his fires, and shakes his founding rod:
He lashes now, and goads her on amain;
And now he checks her stubborn to the rein,
Curbs in her tongue, juft labouring to disclose,
And speak that fate which in her bofom glows.
Ages on ages throng, a painful load,
Myriads of images, and myriads croud;
Men, times, and things, or prefent, or to come,
Work labouring up and down, and urge for room. 255
Whatever is, shall be, or e'er has been,
Rolls in her thought, and to her fight is feen.
The ocean's utmost bounds her eyes explore,
And number every fand on every shore;
Nature, and all her works, at once they fee,
Know when the first begun, and when her end shall be.
And as the Siby once in Cumæ's cell,
When vulgar fates the proudly ceas'd to tell,
The Roman destiny distinguish'd took,
And kept it careful in her facred book ;
So now, Phemonoë, in crouds of thought,
The fingle doom of Latian Appius fought.
Nor in that mass, where multitudes abound,
A private fortune can with ease be found,
At length her foamy mouth begins to flow,
Groans more distinct, and plainer murmurs go
A doleful howl the roomy cavern fhook,
And thus the calmer maid in fainting accents spoke While guilty rage the world tumultuous rends,
In peace for thee, Euboea's vale attends;
Thither, as to thy refuge, shalt thou fly,
There find repofe, and unmolested lye.
She faid; the god her labouring tongue fuppreft,
And in eternal darkness veil'd the reft.
Ye facred Tripods, on whofe doom we wait!
Ye guardians of the future laws of fate!
And thou, oh! Phoebus, whofe prophetic skill
Reads the dark counfels of the heavenly will;
Why did your wary oracles refrain,
To tell what kings, what heroes must be flain,
And how much blood the blushing earth should stain ?
Was it that, yet, the guilt was undecreed?
That yet our Pompey was not doom'd to bleed?
Or chofe you wifely, rather, to afford
A juft occafion to the patriot's fword?
As if you fear'd t'avert the tyrant's doom,
And hinder Brutus from avenging Rome?
Through the wide gates at length by force display'd,
Impetuous fallies the prophetic maid;
Nor yet the holy rage was all fupprefs'd,
Part of the god still heaving in her breast :
Urg'd by the Dæmon, yet she rolls her eyes,
And wildly wanders o'er the spacious skies.
Now horrid purple flushes in her face,
And now a livid pale fupplies the place;
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