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47

ODE XIII.

Upon a Day by Fate accurs'd
Thou, a pernicious Plant, wert nurs'd;
Set by some vile unlucky Hand,
A Plague and Burden to the Land.
That guilty Hand was surely dy'd
With the deep Crime of Parricide;
Or with the Slaughter of some Guest
Defil'd the bloody imp'ous Feast.
Poyson or something worse had stain'd
With lasting Guilt that luckless Hand,
Which on my harmless Grounds and me
Bestow'd this fatal falling Tree.
Who can foresee what is to come?
Or who prevent impending Doom?
The Sailor minds the Winds and Tide,
And dares all Elements beside.
The Parthian fears a Roman Foe;
The Roman dreads a Parthian Bow;
While silent Death still sweeps away
The World, her everlasting Prey.
How near was I to Realms of Night?
Where Minos does in Judgment sit;
Where pious Shades walk o'er the Plains;
Where Proserpine and Darkness reigns:
Where Sappho's warbling Measures tell,
By what disastrous Cause she fell:
Alcæus in sublimer Strains
Of Toils by Sea and Land complains.
48

The Ghosts stand round them, and admire
The Virgin's Voice, the Hero's Lyre;
The listning Crowds with Pleasure hear
The Fall of Kings and Feats of War.
Ev'n Hydra does his Rage unbend,
And all his hundred Heads attend:
Such Musick charms each knotted Snake
Which in long Curls the Furies shake.
The tortur'd Ghosts forget their Pains,
And catch with Joy the Heav'nly Strains;
Orion all his Care forgoes,
And lets his bridled Lyons loose.
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