Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Dii, quibus imperium est animarum, umbræque silentes
Et Chaos et Phlegethon, loca nocte tacentia latè,
Sit mihi fas audita loqui: sit numine vestro
Pandere res alta terra et caligine mersas.
Virgil.

Mean while Adrastus, with his vanquish'd crew,
Fierce from the field to Aulon's hill withdrew;
Securely screen'd behind its friendly height,
He waits fresh forces to renew the fight:
Warm glows his bosom to revenge the blow,
And rush vindictive on the conquering foe:
So when a famish'd lion quits his prey,
Repuls'd, and slowly growling stalks away,

Fierce in his den the ground he roaring gnaws,
Sharpens his teeth, and furious whets his claws:
Keen as the lightning flash his fiery eyes,
And the whole flock in bloody fancy dies.

And now Ulysses' son, who, pleas'd, survey'd
Through all his camp consummate order spread,
To execute that lov'd design addrest,
Which secret long had brooded in his breast.
Hence sprung his cares;—long past for many a night,
Each dream had brought his father to his sight:
Just when the stars before the dawn decay,
And o'er the hills Aurora leads the day,
Just when soft sleep calls forth his fluttering train
Of dreams, and hastens to th' Elysian plain:
Then ever rose Ulysses to his view,
At break of day, when dreams they say are true.

Naked sometimes the hero he survey'd,
In those blest isles for virtuous souls decreed,
Beside a rill which wanton'd thro' the mead:
While softly-blushing nymphs around him haste,
And o'er his limbs the modest mantle cast.
Now in a dome, where gold and ivory glow,
He sees him plac'd, and hears his language flow:
While crown'd with garlands sit the list'ning throng,
Charm'd with the soft persuasion of his tongue.

Whenever sleep the pious son forsook,
Such dubious dreams his soul with terror shook:
Pensive reflecting—thus he oft complain'd,
“What dreams most dreadful could like these have pain'd?
“Too plain such scenes of bliss the truth declare,
“No more my father breathes this vital air!
“To those blest climes remov'd, where virtue's sons
“Heaven with eternal peace rewarding crowns:
“Those climes with thee methinks I travel o'er!—
“And oh how wretched 'tis to hope no more.
“Must I then never hence behold thy face,
“Nor in these arms my tender sire embrace?
“No more thy tongue's mellifluous wisdom hear,
“Nor to thy hands the filial kisses bear?
“Those hands which never on the madding crew,
“The suitor-train shall pour the vengeance due?
“To fame shall Ithaca no more return,
“But droop in ruins and for ever mourn?

“Yes; the dread powers, whose ceaseless hate pursues
“The sire, thro' such vicissitude of woes,
“To the sad son these dreams of torture send,
“His life's sole comfort from his heart to rend,
“Thence thence that sweet deluder, hope, to tear,
“Life of our life, and soother of each care!

“Yet doubtful thus, 'tis anguish to remain;—
“Why said I doubtful, when the truth is plain?
“Too sure my father treads the realms below;
“And to those realms to find his ghost I'll go:

“If impious Theseus safe those regions sought,
“His soul with injury to Pluto fraught:
“Why shou'd a son the dreary journey dread,
“By love conducted, and by duty led?
“The mighty Hercules descended there:
“And tho' not him, 'tis great like him to dare!
“Soft-plaining Orphens so successful prov'd,
“That ev'n the gloomy Monarch's soul he mov'd,
“Inexorable held—till back to life
“He to the tender husband gave the wife;
“And shall I then of like compassion fear,
“When so superior is the loss I bear?

“'Tis fixt—to those dread regions will I fly,
“Prepar'd for death, if fate demands to die:
“(For why should mortals fear the tyrants blow,
“Who daily groan beneath a weight of woe?)
“And prove if pitiless, as tales resound,
“The pow'rs, who rule the realms of night, are found?
“And, oh my father, tho' my fate denies
“That thou on earth shou'd'st bless these longing eyes:
“Yet it may chance permit thy son to know
“Thy shade—now happy, in the realms below.”

Speaking he wept, and weeping he arose
The light to seek, and mitigate his woes:
In vain he sought, while still the torturing dart
That pierc'd, continued rankling in his heart:
And 'midst such anguish he resolv'd to go
By Acherontia to the realms below:
'Twas near the camp: the name a gloomy cave
To Acheron's black banks conducting, gave:

A stream the deities themselves revere,
An oath they dread, and tremble when they swear.
High on a rock was Acherontia plac'd,
As on the tow'ring oak an eagle's nest:
Beneath whose feet the horrid cavern lay,
Whence trembling mortals turn'd with dread away:
Whence watchful shepherds drove their fleecy care,
Pois'nous the ground, and tainted all the air:
For Styx her vapours through the passage crouds,
Rolls flames on flames, and sulph'rous clouds on clouds:
There never zephyrs gently-breathing blow,
Nor herb nor flower around the cavern grow:
No autumns smile, nor blooming springs return;
The parch'd ground languishes, the meadows mourn:
O'er the dead prospect stretch the wearied eyes,
Where leafless shrubs alone, or baneful cypress rise.

Vain ev'n at distance Ceres' gifts to share
The labourers try: in vain the vineyards rear:
Their sullied streams the drooping Naiads mourn,
Black noxious waves distilling from their urn:

There no sweet warblers told the list'ning grove,
(No grove was there) the story of their love:
Beneath a milder sky their loves they sung
While here alone the raven's croaking tongue,
And owl's more hideous shriek thro' the drear desart rung.
Bitter the grass, whereon the flocks that fed,
Nor wanton skip'd, nor bleating chear'd the mead:
His curled front the bull dejected hung,
Nor with his amorous call the forest rung:
Pipe, flute and love the languid swains forbear,
Nor pipe, nor flute, nor Phillis pleases here.

From this destructive cavern frequent came,
Mix'd with black smoke and sulphur, living flame;
Whose horrid darkness drove the sun away,
And brought night's terrors in the noon of day:
'Twas then the people to their altars flew,
And solemn pay'd the sacrifices due.
Tho' thus submissive, oft they strove in vain
To sooth the tyrants of the infernal plain:
Who fond of blood, oft cruelly demand
The young—the flower and glory of the land.

Thro' this drear cave Telemachus decreed
To find the gloomy mansions of the dead:
Pallas, whose care the hero still attends,
Whose Ægis guards him, and whose arm defends,
The chief to Pluto's favour recommends.

And mov'd by her request great Jove commands
Hermes—(who daily to grim Charon's hands
From realms above conveys the flitting train)
From the stern king safe passport to obtain;
Permission for Ulysses' son to tread,
His wide domain, the dwellings of the dead!

Favour'd by night, Telemachus withdrew,
And from the camp unseen, unnoted flew:
And as he mov'd by Luna's glittering light,
His prayers addrest that planet of the night;
Walking in brightness thro' the dusky sky,
In heav'n, on earth, in hell a deity.
Pious his purpose, and his heart sincere,
With kind regard the goddess heard his pray'r.
The cave approaching, in amaze he found,
Trembling beneath his feet the bellowing ground:
All hell's dread clamours thro' the entrance roar'd,
And from the heav'ns red fire and lightning pour'd.
Aghast the son of bold Ulysses stood;
Fear freez'd his limbs, and terror chill'd his blood:
Yet soon his virtue triumph'd:—to the skies
Speaking he rais'd his pious hands and eyes;

“Great gods, these omens with delight I meet,
“Oh still be gracious, and your work compleat.”

Thus as he speaks, his soul new vigour proves,
And tow'rd the cave with double speed he moves.
When lo at once the gloomy entrance clear'd,
The thick smoke flew, the darkness disappear'd;
No more around destructive vapours roll,
Nor pois'nous smells rush sick'ning on the soul:
Then unattended—for who dares attend?
Thro' the dread entrance view the chief descend!
Two trusty Cretans, who his purpose knew,
Their friend's descent at distance trembling view;
And pour to heav'n those pray'rs they deem in vain,
For him they dare not hope to view again!

Mean while the hero wav'd his glitt'ring blade,
And pierc'd undaunted thro' the sightless shade:

When thro' its horror gleam'd a fainting light,
As some dim beacon, 'midst the gloom of night:
He sees the fluttering ghosts around him glide,
Who, as he flash'd his sword, forsook his side.
Oblivious Lethe, whose sad stream rolls slow
In sluggish course, next rises to his view:
Whose Banks departed souls unnumber'd croud;
Fruitless their prayers, no passport here allow'd;
On earth unbury'd since their limbs remain,
Relentless Charon they beseech in vain:
Who instantaneous grants, with surly grace,
The living Grecian in his boat a place.

Telemachus no sooner enters there,
Than melancholy plainings wound his ear:
A ghost disconsolate bewail'd his woe,
Whose cause of grief the hero sought to know,
And who he was above, that felt so much below.

“I once was Nabopharzan, he begun,
“The haughtiest king of haughty Babylon:
“The spacious east all trembled at my name;
“And the world rung with Nabopharzan's fame.
“I will'd—and lo—a marble temple stood,
“Built by my subjects to their monarch god:
“My golden statue 'midst the temple rear'd,
“With all the pomp of worship was rever'd:
“Perfumes incessant on my altars blaz'd,
“And hymns and songs divine the godhead prais'd.

“Who dar'd the pleasure of his king controul,
“Strait o'er him felt my fury's thunder roll:
“Ev'n thought was wearied new delight to find,
“To bless my life, and dissipate my mind:

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“And in this state, with youth, with vigour blest,
“Yet what felicities had I to taste?
“When a false woman, whom I fondly lov'd,
“The fancied god a wretched mortal prov'd!
“She gave me poison; all my pomp I lost:
“My guilt alone accompanies my ghost!

“But now in solemn shew around my urn
“With well-feign'd grief my flattering subjects mourn:
“What tho' all signs of sorrow they express,
“None died less lov'd, and none lamented less:
“My friends, my family already deem
“My memory disgrace, and hate my name:
“Here too already I begin to feel
“Foretaste of vengeance, and the pangs of hell.”

Mov'd at the sight Ulysses' son began,
“Say, 'midst the honours of so proud a reign;
“Say, wast thou ever with contentment blest—
“Or did the Halcyon peace e'er brood within thy breast?

“I knew it not, the hapless king rejoin'd,
“Nor ever felt that boasted peace of mind,
“Of which the sages tell: 'twas lost to me,
“On earth if really such a thing there be!
“My heart was ruffled with incessant cares,
“Tost midst desires, vain hopes and jealous fears:
“My passions still to agitate I sought,
“To kill reflection, and to stifle thought!
“But reason's calms were madness to my brain,
“And the least interval, an age of pain.
“Such was the peace, the pleasure I enjoy'd:
“All else seem'd folly; fable all beside.”

Speaking he wept, his narrow soul too mean
Misfortunes with true courage to sustain:

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As abject in adversity, as late
Proud and insulting in his prosperous state.

Near him some slaves obtain'd an equal place,
Murder'd on earth, his obsequies to grace:
These with their prince to Charon Hermes brings,
Their fate reverses, and makes them the kings:
To them all pow'r o'er Nabopharzan gave,
On earth their tyrant, and in hell their slave.
Now they revile “and were not we, they cry,
“Men, like thyself—poor fallen deity!
“How cou'd thy heart such impious pride conceive,
“Thyself a god, vain mortal, to believe!”

With taunting scoffs, then others thus began,
“Well did he judge to lay aside the man;
“Void of humanity, he could not claim
“Ought human—monster and himself the same!”
Another cries, “alas thy gifts are gone,
“And with thy power thy flatterers are flown;
“Thou can'st exert thy cruelties no more—
“The slave of slaves; thy tyranny is o'er:
“Tho' heaven awhile delays th' impending blow,
“Sure falls the stroke, and certain, tho' 'tis slow!”

At these reproaches, with keen anguish prest,
The tyrant, prostrate on his heaving breast,
Fierce gnash'd his teeth, and frantic tore his hair,
And shew'd a thousand acts of mad despair:
“Raise him, ye slaves, indignant Charon cries,
“Let hell behold and vindicate the skies:
“Let every ghost be witness to his woe,
“And view the horrors he receives below:
“Absolving heav'n, which upon earth to reign
“Allow'd a wretch so worthless and prophane.

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“And thou, oh impious Babylonian, know,
“These, these are but beginnings of thy woe!
“Prepare before dread Minos to appear,
“Great judge of hell—oh tremble and prepare!”

Speaking, his boat the living hero bore
Across the lazy lake to Pluto's shore:
The thronging spectres crouded to the sight,
A living mortal 'midst the realms of night!
But scarce he lands or ere they fade away,
Like night's dark shades before the face of day.

His brow less wrinkled, and less fierce his eyes,
Thus to the hero smiling Charon cries,
“Since, favourite mortal, highly lov'd of heav'n,
“These realms of darkness to thine eyes are giv'n,
“Where mortals living are denied to tread,
“Pursue thy way; and thou wilt soon be led
“To Pluto's throne, great monarch of the dead.
“He will permit thee all his realms to trace,
“And view each wonder of this secret place:
“Which 'tis nor mine to tell, nor mine to shew:
“He will permit thee—favour'd mortal, go!”

He spoke; with haste the chief advanc'd along;
While hovering ghosts on ghosts around him throng:
Numerous as sands, beside the roaring main,
Or falling leaves, that strew th' autumnal plain:

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And near him as the silent spectres prest,
A dread divine o'eraw'd his throbbing breast.
But when thro' all the dreary regions past,
He came to Pluto's solemn court at last,
An awful fear ran shivering thro' his blood,
And his knees trembled as aghast he stood:
Scarce from his lips these words distinguish'd broke,
His every accent faulter'd as he spoke.

“Before thee, dreaded power, a suppliant bends,
“Who to thy realms to seek his sire descends:
“Oh say, does earth the great Ulysses know,
“Or wanders he a shade 'midst shades below?”

Encircled with the pomp of hell's dread state,
On throne of ebony grim Pluto sate:
Pale was his meagre visage and severe,
His brow was wrinkled with unceasing care:
Flashing keen fire, his hollow eye-balls roll,
A living man was anguish to his soul:
His whole attention Proserpine obtain'd,
Who shar'd his throne, and o'er his empire reign'd:

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She his relentless bosom well cou'd move;
Such charms has beauty, and such force has love!

Beneath the throne pale death devouring lay,
Whetting his scythe, and planning future prey:
Around him fly black jealousies and cares,
And fell despair who her own body tears:
Roaring revenge with wounds all cover'd o'er,
And every wound distilling ropy gore:
Hate; pining avarice on herself who feeds;
And envy, who at good of others bleeds;
If impotent to hurt, she raves, she swells,
And her own corse her vengeful fury feels:
Moon-struck ambition, that worst pest of kings,
Whose madding rage confounds all earthly things:
Treason that feeds on blood, yet ne'er can taste
Secure, the horrors of so sad a feast:
Impiety, whose hands the pit prepare,
Down which herself she plunges in despair:

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Dire spectres, hideous ghosts and phantoms dread,
To fright the living, who assume the dead:
Dreams of distress, and watchings as severe,
And every woe and every pain was here.
In dreadful shew the monsters press along,
The throne encircle, and the palace throng.
When thus the monarch spoke; while all around
Hell's hollow deep return'd the thund'ring sound:
“Young mortal, fate has forc'd thee to prophane
“These sacred regions where the dead remain:
“Follow thy fate: but whether earth or hell
“Contains thy father—Pluto will not tell:
“Since upon earth a king, be first survey'd
“That part of Tartarus where kings are laid,
“Whose crimes incur the punishment they share:
“And next th' Elysian fields demand thy care,
“Where pious princes due rewards receive:
“Trace these: fly hence: and strait my confines leave.”

Forthwith the hero, with an anxious haste,
Thro' those vast, void, and boundless spaces past:
Impatient from the tyrant to remove,
Below so dreaded, and so fear'd above:
Impatient from his mind his doubts to drive,
And know, if yet his father were alive.

Soon to the banks of Tartarus he came,
Where rose black smoke from streams of living flame:
Whose stench to earth, if haply reaching, brings
Immediate death to all terrestrial things:
With hideous noise the fiery streams descend,
And the stunn'd ear with loud confusion rend,
As the red cataracts thunder down the steep,
And flaming fall amidst th' unbottom'd deep.

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Undaunted through the gulph Ulysses' son,
Encourag'd by Minerva, hastens on:
At first a crowd of wretches rose to view,
Who, poor 'midst wealth, on earth no pleasures knew;
But rapine, fraud and cruelty employ'd
To gain that Mammon which they ne'er enjoy'd;
On earth their constant thought, their constant care,
And their eternal condemnation here!

Numbers of hypocrites, in these abodes,
The curse of mortals, and the hate of gods,
He saw—religion's specious garb who wore,
To cloak their crimes, and gild their vices o'er:
To god-born virtue who the lye had giv'n,
And not abus'd mankind alone, but heav'n:
These 'midst the damn'd severest sufferings find,
As the most mean, and abject of mankind:

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Children, whose impious hands their parents slew,
Wives whose fell hate the blood of husbands drew:
Traitors, who perjury's black guilt despis'd,
And solemnly their country sacrific'd:
All as less guilty, less severely feel
The torturing horrors of avenging hell!
And just the sentence, righteous the decrees,
By the infernal judges past on these;
Since to be wicked not enough they deem,
Unlike the wicked, they would virtuous seem:
And while deceiving in fair virtue's shew,
They render virtue's self suspected too.
On these the gods, whose pow'r they mocking scorn'd,
The fullest vials of their wrath return'd!

Near these another sort of mortals lie,
Whose crimes are venial in the vulgar eye;
Whom yet the gods with mercy never view,
But with inexorable wrath pursue.
These are th' ungrateful, liars, flattery's throng,
For vice who dar'd to prostitute their tongue;
Malicious censurers, who joy to spread
O'er virtue's living light a baleful shade:
And all who, urg'd by inconsiderate haste,
Rashly on things pernicious sentence past;
And thence the sons of spotless merit stain'd,
And the fair fame of innocence profan'd!

But no ingratitude was punish'd here,
With wrath more hot, and vengeance more severe,

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Than that against the rulers of the skies—
“What, shall a man—the righteous Minos cries,
“A very monster 'midst mankind be held,
“Who to his friend in gratitude has fail'd;
“Whose greatest favours are but light to those
“The bounteous hand of providence bestows:
“And unchastiz'd shall thankless men defy
“The pow'r and righteous justice of the sky;
“When life, health, all things from its goodness flow,
“And less their parents, than the gods they owe?
“The more on earth they triumph, more severe
“Is the sure vengeance which awaits them here:
“Their guilt must wrath unutterable prove,
“And greatly vindicate the powers above.”

As in full state Telemachus survey'd
The three impartial judges of the dead;
While they gave sentence on a wretch distrest,
To know his crimes the hero made request:
Quick for himself the criminal began,
“Behold a guiltless, unoffending man!
“Who yet no evil knew, no crimes pursu'd,
“Whose greatest bliss was plac'd in doing good:
“My deeds were generous, and from guilt secure,
“Just all my dealings, and my conscience pure;
“No charge my spotless innocence can fear!
“Why thus arraign'd, then guiltless, stand I here?”

“Nothing, O man, dread Minos cries, we find,
“Deficient in thy duty, toward mankind!
“Fool not to know, that less to man He ow'd,
“Than to each blessing, but neglected, God!
“Knew'st thou not all the virtue that was thine
“Flow'd down a present from the pow'rs divine?

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“Why then from man so sedulous to claim,
“From man—vain nothing, self-approving fame?
“And in thyself, ah! why so mad to place,
“All as thy own, each heav'n-descended grace?
“Mocking the righteous rulers of the sky,
“Thyself, vain man, thy own divinity!

“They, whose are all things, and who all things know,
“Cannot be cheated, or their right forego:
“Since heav'n forgetting, thou'rt forgot of heav'n,
“And to thy darling self for ever giv'n!
“For never real can that virtue prove,
“Which is not founded in celestial love!

“Blind or to good or evil roams the throng,
“Vain in themselves who center right and wrong;
“And vice and virtue with indifference blend,
“Of each the test their interests, and the end!
“Here, blazing bright, upon their follies flows
“The light divine, and all their errors shows:
“Which oft condemns what they too vainly prize.
“And, what they madly censure, justifies.”

Struck with these sounds, so solemn and severe,
No more the wretch his late lov'd self cou'd bear:
With fond complacency he views no more
His every virtue, so admir'd before!
Wild thro' his breast despair tormenting flies,
And his own heart is anguish to his eyes,
Th' avenger, as before, the scorner of the skies.
Now he beholds the folly of that fame,
With whole intent he strove from man to claim.
Chang'd, wholly chang'd, his conscience loud upbraids,
And on his mind remorse and anguish feeds:

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Condemning rise his virtues to his view,
And shame leads on the late delusive crew.
Ev'n the fell furies leave the wretch alone,
And deem their pangs inferior to his own!
Since from his hated self he ne'er can run,
The search of others he attempts to shun:
And hides him in sequester'd gloomy shades;
But piercing light the thickest gloom invades:
Bright truth revengeful, with her piercing rays,
Glows on his guilt, and all his heart displays.
Whate'er he lov'd, with torturing pain he views,
As the dire source of his eternal woes.
“Fool that I am, upbraiding oft he cried,
“My wisdom folly, and my virtue pride:
“Nor men, nor gods, nor ev'n myself I knew,
“Ignorant of all things, as of all things true!
“Fruitless I pac'd o'er error's mazy road,
“And miss'd the pathway to substantial good:
“Myself my idol—'twas presumption all—
“Just are the gods and merited my fall!”

At length those monarchs in this dread abode
View'd the young chief, and trembled as he view'd,
Who for abuse of pow'r in upper air,
Repent in pangs, and groan in tortures here:
Fierce on one hand a vengeful fury yell'd,
And to their eyes a magic mirror held;
Where in their full deformity was seen
Of all their vices the long loathsome train:

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There saw they—there, unwilling, forc'd to see
The fulsome form of that proud vanity,
Which late exalting swell'd each haughty breast,
And gave to grossest flattery its zest.
There, in the tell-truth mirror they espied
Their sloth, their misplac'd jealousy and pride;
Their disregard to virtue's golden lore,
Their pageant pomp, which made their people poor:
Their dread the voice of honest truth to hear,
For fools their love, for flatterers their care:
Their dire hard-heartedness to men, alone
When born for men, or born to mount a throne.
Their toils to gratify each meaner sense,
To nobler deeds their female indolence:
Their mad ambition false renown to gain
Thro' seas of blood, and hills of subjects slain:
And all their cruelties, which constant roll
In search of joys to lull the wounded soul,
And drown the calls of conscience, 'midst the cries
Of weeping wretches, and of sufferers sighs.
Here, as themselves incessant they survey'd,
How monstrous was the sight, the scene how dread!
Not so deform'd the dire chimæra's view,
Or the fell Hydra which Alcides slew;
Nor Cerberus himself, tho' ropy gore
His wide three-gaping throats disgorging pour,
Poisonous and black, and capable to bring
All hell's inhabitants to glut his king.

On t'other side a second fury stood,
From whom, insulting, those encomiums flow'd,
Which while alive their flatterer's bestow'd.

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She plac'd another mirror to their eyes,
Where, as by flattery feign'd, their forms arise:
Contrasts so dread they tremble to abide,
And curse their own mad vanity and pride.

Those kings on earth with fullest praises crown'd,
Were here most wanting and most wicked found:
And justly so: for tyranny's bold brood
Lives far more dreaded than the just and good:
And shameless from the flatterers of their times
Drag loud harangues, and truth-dishonouring rhymes;
Thro' the dire darkness, where no ray was seen,
Save but to shew the fierce insulting train,
Their groans rise dreadful, and their tortures sound,
And anguish echoes thro' the vast profound.
And as on earth with human lives they play'd,
And for themselves pretended all things made;
Now their own slaves their tyrants do they see,
Nor entertain one hope of being free:
Fierce from the slaves each lash vindictive flows,
Groaning they lie, and fruitless wou'd oppose.
So the resounding anvils still receive
Each blow the cyclops' ponderous hammers give,
To work when hasten'd by their limping sire;
Each furnace glows, and Ætna seems on fire.

Here many a wretch Telemachus survey'd,
With lowering looks, pale, hideous, and dismay'd;
Whose outward horrors from their inward springs,
From conscience, and the soul's corrosive stings:
Themselves, themselves in vain they sought to fly,
The more they shun, the torture seems more nigh:
Nor for their crimes a punishment more dread,
Than their own crimes, self-torturing do they need;

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Before their eyes in fullest pomp they glare,
And in each aggravating form appear:
Not less terrific to the troubled fight
Stalk horrid spectres thro' the gloom of night.
The vengeful throng the frighted miscreants fly,
And long, to shun their pow'r, again to die—
Fate bids them suffer and the gods deny.

How oft in vain they wish'd, amidst despair,
Annihilation's dreadful boon to share!
How oft they call'd upon the deafen'd tide,
From truth in its abyss their guilt to hide;
From truth whose lustre, dazzling all their views,
Avenging shines, and beaming bright pursues:
Reserv'd for everlasting wrath they lie,
Which drop by drop distils, and never will be dry!
That truth they fear'd, their punishment is made,
And, long unseen, becomes their pest, survey'd!
Like Jove's blue lightnings blazing thro' the sky,
Which pass the outward parts regardless by,
And to a nobler prey direct their road,
To the warm bowels, and to life's abode.

As metals in the furnace'-flames decay,
And unconsum'd, dissolving melt away:
So melt their souls in this avenging flame,
Destroy'd its texture, yet each sense the same.
Torn from themselves perpetual terrors reign,
Nor ease, nor comfort can they ever gain:
Mad rage, and wild despair, and home-bred strife,
Serve only to support their wretched life.

114

Amidst these sights, which chill'd the hero's blood,
And every hair erected, as he view'd,
Various of Lydia's kings he saw, who prove
Pangs for the luxury they indulg'd above:
Who, deaf to glory, and the trump of fame,
And all those godlike labours empires claim,
Deaf to their people's good, and country's bliss,
Lay drown'd in joy, and heart-enfeebling ease:
And on smooth pleasure's lazy couch reclin'd,
Lull'd in soft indolence the nobler mind.

From every mouth reproaches loudly flew,
And each at other taunts upbraiding threw:
The tortur'd sire thus thunder'd to his son,
“Did I not warn thee, ere I left the throne;
“Did I not warn thee, when the grave in view,
“Full in my face my crimes upbraiding flew;
“From all my errors, and my ills to run,
“My tyranny and cruelties to shun?”

“Ah let me curse, the wretched son replied,
“Thy cruelty, lust, arrogance and pride:
“My ruin from thy dire example date,
“Thy crimes my doom, thy tyranny my fate!
“I saw thee in enervate pleasures drown'd,
“And with base sycophants encompass'd round:
“Hence fond of pleasure like thyself I grew,
“And hence, like thee, encourag'd flattery's crew;
“Caught by their lures, and swelling in my mind,
“I look'd with low contempt on all mankind:
“Beneath me all mere beasts of burthen deem'd,
“No more, than serving to our use, esteem'd.

115

“Such the base tenets thy example taught,
“By whose superior influence madly caught,
“To this distress thy tortur'd son is brought!”

Reproaching thus, alternate they went on,
The son his sire, the sire curst his son;
And now with phrenzy mad for fight prepare,
Howl, rend, and groan like furies in despair.

Hovering around these wretched monarch's sight,
Like boding screech-owls in the gloom of night;
Throng dread suspicions, diffidences vain,
And false alarms, the pest of each inhuman reign!
Insatiate thirst of gold's destructive good,
False glory, wading thro' a sea of blood:
And vile effeminacy, which destroys
All solid pleasures, and substantial joys!

Nor punish'd were those impious kings alone,
For all the evils they themselves had done;
Omissions too of good were censur'd here,
As crimes deserving wrath no less severe:
The several vices in their realms that reign'd,
Which from the sleeping laws protection gain'd,
Were all imputed to the sceptred throng,
From whom neglect, and want of sanction sprung.

But above all, those kings blood-thirsty found
Rigour most dire, and horror most profound;
Who o'er their people, with a shepherd's pain,
Nor watch'd, nor careful fed the subject train:
But like rapacious Wolves their flocks destroy'd,
And the wide ruin of their folds enjoy'd!

But that which troubled most the Hero's thought,
And most compassion in his bosom wrought,

116

Was to behold in this abyss confin'd
A number deem'd good kings among mankind;
But now condemn'd to Tartarus and pain,
For suffering o'er them wicked Men to reign:
Here all those crimes their Ministers had done,
Were charg'd and punish'd as the princes' own.
Most of this wretched subject-ridden train,
To vice or virtue had indifferent been;
Great was their weakness: never did they dread
Their lives in ignorance of the truth to lead;
Nor ever relish for true virtue shew'd,
Or plac'd their happiness in doing good!

Octob. 1750.

This was design'd as a specimen of a translation of the whole work, from prosecuting which, other and better employments prevented.