Now fwell her veins, her turgid finews rife,
And bounding frantic through the cave she 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 röd:
He lafhes now, and goads her on amain;
And now he checks her ftubborn to the rein,
Curbs in her tongue, just labouring to disclose,
And speak that fate which in her bosom 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, fhall be, or e'er has been,
Rolls in her thought, and to her fight is seen.
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 she first begun, and when her end shall be.
And as the Siby once in Cuma's cell,
When vulgar fates the proudly ceas'd to tell,
The Roman deftiny diftinguish'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 mafs, 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, shalt thou fly,
There find repofe, and unmolested lye.
She faid; the god her labouring tongue fuppreft,
And in eternal darkness veil'd the rest.
Ye facred Tripods, on whofe doom we wait!
Ye guardians of the future laws of fate!
And thou, oh! Phœbus, 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 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 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 display'd, Impetuous fallies the prophetic maid;
Nor yet the holy rage was all suppress'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 spacious 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 storm sonorous sings,
But noify Boreas hangs his weary wings:
In hollow groans the falling winds complain,
And murmur o'er the hoarfe-refounding main.
Now by degrees the fire æthereal fail'd,
And the dull human fenfe again prevail'd;
While Phoebus, fudden, in a murky fhade,
Hid the paft vifion from the mortal maid.
Thick clouds of dark oblivion rife between,
And fnatch away at once the wondrous fcene;
Stretch'd on the ground the fainting prieftefs lies, 315
While to the Tripod, back, th' informing spirit flies.
Mean-while, fond Appius, erring in his fate,
Dream'd of long safety, 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 blow,
Or fnatch thee from amidst the general woe!
In times like thefe, 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, Rhamnusia reigns;
Where by the whirling current barks are tost
From Chalcis to unlucky Auli's coaft;
There fhalt thou meet the gods appointed doom,
A private death, and long-remember'd tomb.
To other wars the victor now fucceeds,
And his proud eagles from Iberia leads :
When the chang'd gods his ruin seem'd to threat,
And cross the long successful course of fate.
Amidft his camp, and fearless of his foes,
Sudden he faw where inborn dangers rose,
He saw those troops that long had faithful stood,
Friends to his caufe, and enemies to good,
Grown weary of their chief, and fatiated with blood.
Whether the trumpet's found too long had ceas'd, 340'
And flaughter flept in unaccustom'd reft:
Or whether, arrogant by mifchief made,
The foldier held his guilt but half repay'd:
Whilft avarice and hope of bribes prevail,
Turn against Cæfar, and his cause, the scale,
And fet the mercenary fword to fale.
Nor, e'er before, fo truly could he read
What dangers ftrow thofe paths the mighty tread.
Then, firft he found, on what a faithlefs bafe
Their nodding towers ambition's builders place: 350
He who fo late, a potent faction's head,
Drew in the nations, and the legions led ;
Now ftript of all, beheld in every hand
The warriors weapons at their own command;
Nor fervice now, nor fafety they afford,
But leave him fingle to his guardian fword.
Nor is this rage the grumbling of a croud,
That fhun to tell their difcontents aloud;
Where all with gloomy looks suspicious go,
And dread of an informer chokes their woe:
Fut, bold in numbers, proudly they appear,
And fcorn the bashful mean restraints of fear.
For laws, in great rebellions, lofe their end,
And all go free, when multitudes offend.
Among the reft, one thus: At length 'tis time 365
To quit thy caufe, oh Cæfar! and our crime:
The world around for foes thou hast explor`d,
And lavishly expos'd us to the fword;
To make thee great, a worthless crowd we fall,
Scatter'd o'er Spain, o'er Italy, and Gaul;
In every clime beneath the spacious sky,
Our leader conquers, and his foldiers die.
What boots our march beneath the frozen zone,
Or that loft blood which stains the Rhine and Rhone! When fcarr'd with wounds, and worn with labours
We come with hopes of recompence prepar'd,
Thou giv'ft us war, more war, for our reward.
Though purple rivers in thy cause we spilt,
And ftain'd our horrid hands in every guilt;
With unavailing wickedness we toil'd,
In vain the gods, in vain the fenate spoil'd;
Of virtue, and reward, alike bereft,
Our pious poverty is all we 've left.
Say to what height thy daring arms would rife ?
If Rome 's too little, what can e'er fuffice?
Oh, fee at length! with pity, Cæfar, fee,
Thefe withering arms, thefe hairs grown white for thee.
In painful wars our joyless days have past,
Let weary age lie down on peace at last :
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