DEATH.
By the Right Honourable the
A Tranflation out of FRENCH.
N thofe cold Climates, where the Sun
Unwillingly, and hides his face in tears;
A dreadful Vale lies in a Defart Ifle,
On which indulgent Heaven did never smile.
There a thick Grove of Aged Cypress Trees,
Which none without an awful horror fees,
Into its wither'd Arms, depriv'd of Leaves,
Whole Flooks of ill-prefaging Birds receives:
Poisons are all the Plants the Soil will bear,
And Winter is the only Seafon there.
Millions of Graves cover the spacious Field,
And springs of Blood a thousand Rivers yield,
Whose streams oppreft with Carcases and Bones,
Inftead of gentle Murmurs, pour forth Groans.
Within this Vale a famous Temple stands, Old as the World it felf, which it commands; Round is its figure, and four Iron-Gates Divide Mankind, by order of the Fates.
There come in Crouds, doom'd to one common
The Young, the Old, the Monarch, and the
Old Age, and Pains, which Mankind most
Are faithful Keepers of thofe facred Doors; All clad in mournful Blacks, which alfo Load The facred Wails of this obfcure Abode,
And Tapers of a pitchy fubftance made,
With Clouds of fmoak increase the dismal Shade.
A Monster, void of Reafon and of Sight, The Goddess is, who fways this Realm of Night. Her Power extends o'er all things that have
A Cruel Tyrant, and her Name is Death.
The fairest Object of our wond'ring Eyes
Was newly offer'd up her Sacrifice;
Th' adjoining places where the Altar ftood,
Yet blushing with the fair Almeria's Blood.
When griev'd Orontes, whofe unhappy flame
Is known to all that e'er converfe with Fame;
His mind poffeft by Fury and Defpair,
Within the Sacred Temple made this Prayer:
Great Deity! Who in thy hands do'ft bear
That rufty Scepter, which poor Mortals fear;
Who wanting Eyes, thy felf refpecteft none,
And neither spares the Laurel, nor the Crown!
Oh thou, whom all Mankind in vain with-
ftands!
Each of whofe Blood must one day ftain thy hands!
Oh thou, who every Eye, which fees the Light,
Closest again in an eternal Night!
Open thy Ears, and hearken to my Grief,
To which thy only power can give Relief:
I come not hither to prolong my Fate,
But wish my wretched Life a fhorter date,
And that the Earth would in its Bowels hide
A wretch, whom Heaven invades on every fide:
That from the fight of Day I could remove,
And might have nothing left me but my Love.
Thou only Comforter of Minds oppreft;
The Port, where wearied Spirits are at reft;
Conducter to Elyfium! Take my Life;
My Breaft I offer to thy Sacred Knife :
So just a Grace refuse not, nor despise
A Willing, though a Worthlefs Sacrifice.
Others, their frail and mortal State forgot,
Before thy Altars are not to be brought
Without conftraint; the noife of dying rage,
Heaps of the Slain of every Sex and Age,
The blade all reeking in the gore it shed,
With fever'd Heads and Arms confus'dly fpread,
The Rapid Flames of a perpetual Fire,
The Groans of Wretches ready to expire:
This Tragick Scene makes them in Terror Live,
Till that is forc'd, which they fhould freely give,
Yielding unwillingly what Heaven will have,
Their fears eclipse the Glory of their Grave.
Before thy Face they make undecent moan,
And feel a hundred Deaths in fearing one;
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