Dark matted elf-locks dangling on her brow,
Filthy, and foul, a loathfome burden grow:
Ghastly, and frightful-pale her face is feen,
Unknown to chearful day, and skies ferene :
But when the stars are veil'd, when storms arife,
And the blue forky flame at midnight flies,
Then, forth from graves, she takes her wicked way, And thwarts the glancing lightnings as they play. 830 Where-e'er the breathes, blue poifons round her
The withering grafs avows her fatal tread,
And drooping Ceres hangs her blafted head.
Nor holy rites, nor suppliant prayer she knows,
Nor feeks the gods with facrifice, or vows:
Whate'er fhe offers is the fpoil of urns,
And funeral fire upon her altars burns;
Nor needs the fend a fecond voice on high,
Scar'd at the firft, the trembling gods comply.
Oft in the grave the living has the laid,
And bid reviving bodies leave the dead :
Oft at the funeral pile fhe feeks her prey,
And bears the smoking afhes warm away ;
Snatches fome burning bone, or flaming brand,
And tears the torch from the fad father's hand;
Seizes the shroud's loose fragments as they fly,
And picks the coal where clammy juices fry.
But when the dead in marble tombs are plac'd,
Where the moist carcafe by degrees fhall wafte,
There, greedily on every part the flies,
Strips the dry nails, and digs the gory eyes.
Her teeth from gibbets gnaw the ftrangling noofe,
And from the crofs dead murderers unloofe :
Her charms the ufe of fun-dry'd marrow find,
And husky entrails wither'd in the wind;
Oft drops the ropy gore upon her tongue,
With cordy finews oft her jaws are ftrung,
And thus fufpended oft the filthy hag has hung.
Where-e'er the battle bleeds, and flaughter lies,
Thither, preventing birds and beasts, she hies;
Nor then content to feize the ready prey,
From their fell jaws fhe tears their food away :
She marks the hungry wolf's pernicious tooth,
And joys to rend the morfel from his mouth.
Nor ever yet remorfe could ftop her hand,
When human gore her curfed rites demand.
Whether fome tender infant, yet unborn,
From the lamenting mother's fide is torn;
Whether her purpose asks fome bolder shade,
And by her knife, the ghost she wants, is made; 870
Or whether, curious in the choice of blood,
She catches the firft gushing of the flood;
All mifchief is of ufe, and every murder good.
When blooming youths in early manhood die,
She stands a terrible attendant by;
The downy growth from off their cheeks fhe tears,
· Or cuts left-handed fome felected hairs.
Oft when in death her gafping kindred lay,
Some pious office would the feign to pay;
And while close hovering o'er the bed the hung, 880 Bit the pale lips, and cropt the quivering tongue;
Then, in hoarfe murmurs, ere the ghost could go,
Mutter'd fome meffage to the fhades below.
A fame like this around the region spread,
To prove her power, the younger Pompey led.
Now half her fable courfe the night had run,
And low beneath us roll'd the beamy fun;
When the vile youth in filence cross'd the plain,
Attended by his wonted worthless train.
Through ruins waste and old, long wandering round, 890
Lonely upon a rock, the hag they found.
There, as it chanc'd, in fullen mood fhe fate,
Pondering upon the war's approaching fate:
At that fame hour, the ran new numbers o'er,
And fpells unheard by hell itself before;
Fearful, left wavering destiny might change,
And bid the war in distant regions range.
She charm'd Pharfalia's field with early care,
To keep the warriors and the slaughter there.
So may her impious arts in triumph reign,
And riot in the plenty of the flain:
So, many a royal ghost she
Mangle dead heroes with a ruthless hand,
And rob of many an urn Hefperia's mourning land.
Already fhe enjoys the dreadful field,
And thinks what spoils the rival chiefs shall yield;
With what fell rage each corfe fhe shall invade,
And fly rapacious on the proftrate dead.
To her, a lowly fuppliant, thus begun
The noble Pompey s much unworthy fon:
Hail! mighty mistress of Hæmonian arts,
To whom ftern Fate her dark decrees imparts;
At thy approving, bids her purpose stand,
Or alters it at thy rever'd command.
From thee, my humbler awful hopes prefume
To learn my father's, and my country's doom:
Nor think this grace to one unworthy done,
When thou shalt know me for great Pompey's fon;
With him, all fortunes am I born to share,
His ruin's partner, or his empire's heir.
Let not blind chance for ever wavering stand,
And awe us with her unrefolving hand :
I own my mind unequal to the weight,
Nor can I bear the pangs of doubtful fate:
Let it be certain what we have to fear,
And then-no.matter- -Let the time draw near.
Oh let thy charms this truth from heaven compel,
Or force the dreadful Stygian gods to tell.
Call death, all pale and meagre, from below,
And from herself her fatal purpose know;
Conftrain'd by thee, the phantom shall declare
Whom the decrees to ftrike, and whom to fpare.
Nor ever can thy skill divine foresee,
Through the blind maze of long futurity,
Events more worthy of thy arts, and thee.
Pleas'd that her magic fame diffusely flies,
Thus, with a horrid fmile, the hag replies.
Hadft thou, oh noble youth, my aid implor'd,
any lefs decifion of the fword;
The gods, unwilling, should my power confefs, 94 And crown thy wishes with a full fuccefs.
'Hadft thou defir'd fome fingle friend to fave,
Long had my charms withheld him from the grave :
Or would thy hate fome foe this inftant doom,
He dies, though heaven decrees him years to come. 945
But when effects are to their caufes chain'd,
From everlasting, mightily, ordain'd;
When all things labour for one certain end,
And on one action centre and depend :
Then far behind we own our arts are cast,
And magic is by fortune's power surpass'd.
Howe'er, if yet thy foul can be content,
Only to know that undisclos'd event;
My potent charms o'er nature shall prevail,
And from a thousand mouths extort the tale :
This truth the fields, the floods, the rocks, fhall tell,
The thunder of high heaven, or groans of hell :
Though, ftill, more kindly oracles remain,
Among the recent deaths of yonder plain.
Of these a corfe our myftic rites shall raise,
As yet unfhrunk by Titan's parching blaze;
So fhall no maim the vocal pipes confound,
But the fad fhade shall breathe, diftinct in human found.
While yet she spoke, a double darkness spread,
Black clouds and murky fogs involve her head,
While o'er th' unbury'd heaps her footsteps tread.
Wolves howl'd, and fled where-e'er fhe took her way,
And hungry vultures left the mangled prey;
The favage race, abafh'd, before her yield,
And while fhe culls her prophet, quit the field,
To various carcafes by turns fhe flies,
And, griping with her gory fingers, tries;
Till one of perfect organs can be found,
And fibrous lungs uninjur'd by a wound.
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