The reverend fire the Latian chief obey'd,
And fudden feiz'd the unfufpecting maid,
Where careless in the peaceful grove she stray'd.
Difmay'd, aghaft, and pale, he drags her on;
She ftops, and ftrives the fatal task to shun :
Subdued by force, to fraud and art fhe flies,
And thus to turn the Roman's purpose tries :
What curious hopes thy wandering fancy move,
The filent Delphic oracle to prove?
In vain, Ausonian Appius, art thou come;
Long has our Phoebus 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 afhes 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 answers not to any fuppliant's suit.
But, ah1 too well her artifice is known,
Her fears confefs the god, whom they difown.
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 stronger priest, though yet she strives,
The lingering maid within the temple drives:
But ftill fhe 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 enthusiastic throes confeft;
No terrors in her starting hairs were seen,
To caft from off her brow the wreathing green;
No broken accents half obftructed hung,
Nor fwelling murmurs roll her labouring tongue.
From her fierce jaws no founding horrors come,
No thunders bellow through the working foam,
To rend 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 prieftefs to the Tripod fled :
Close to the holy breathing vent fhe cleaves,
And largely the unwonted god receives.
Nor age the potent fpirit had decay'd,
But with full force he fills the heaving maid;
Nor e'er fo ftrong infpiring Pæan came,
Nor stretch'd, as now, her agonizing frame :
The mortal mind driv'n out forfook her breast,
And the fole godhead every part poffeft.
Now fwell her veins, her turgid finews rise,
And bounding frantic through the cave fhe flies;
Her bristling locks the wreathy fillet fcorn,
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, just 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 present, or to come,
Work labouring up and down, and urge for room. 255
Whatever is, fhall 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 fhall be.
And as the Sibyll once in Cuma's cell,
When vulgar fates fhe 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 diftinct, and plainer murmurs go:
A doleful howl the roomy cavern shook,
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, fhalt thou fly,
There find repose, and unmolested lye.
She faid; the god her labouring tongue fuppreft,
And in eternal darkness veil'd the rest.
Ye facred Tripods, on whose doom we wait!
Ye guardians of the future laws of fate!
And thou, oh! Phoebus, whose prophetic skill
Reads the dark counfels of the heavenly will;
Why did your wary oracles refrain,
To tell what kings, what heroes must be slain,
And how much blood the blushing earth fhould ftain?
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 just occasion to the patriot's sword ?
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 difplay'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 fhe rolls her eyes,
And wildly wanders o'er the fpacious skies.
Now horrid purple flushes in her face,
And now a livid pale fupplies the place;
A double madness paints her cheeks by turns,
With fear she freezes, and with fury burns :
Sad breathing fighs with heavy accent go,
And doleful from her fainting bofom blow.
So when no more the ftorm fonorous fings,
But noify Boreas hangs his weary wings:
In hollow groans the falling winds complain,
And murmur o'er the hoarse-resounding main.
Now by degrees the fire æthereal fail'd,
And the dull human fenfe again prevail'd;
While Phoebus, fudden, in a murky shade,
Hid the past vision from the mortal maid.
Thick clouds of dark oblivion rife between,
And snatch away at once the wondrous scene;
Stretch'd on the ground the fainting prieftefs lies, 315
While to the Tripod, back, th' informing fpirit flies.
Mean-while, fond Appius, erring in his fate,
Dream'd of long fafety, and a neutral state;
And, ere the great event of war was known,
Fix'd on Euboean Chalcis for his own.
Fool! to believe that power could ward the blaw,
Or fnatch thee from amidst the general woe!
In times like these, what god but death can save?
The world can yield no refuge, but the grave.
Where ftruggling feas Charyftos rude conftrains, 325
And, dreadful to the proud, Rhamnufia reigns;
Where by the whirling current barks are tost
From Chalcis to unlucky Auli's coast;
There shalt thou meet the gods appointed doom,
A private death, and long-remember'd tomb.
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