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 Flocks of ill-prefaging Birds receives.
Poisons are all the Plants that Soil will bear,
And Winter is the only Scafon there.
Millions of Graves o'erfpread the fpacious Field,
And Springs of Blood a thoufand Rivers yield;
Whofe Streams, opprefs'd with Carcaffes and Bones,
Inficad of gentle Murmurs, pour forth Groans.
Within this Vale a famous Temple stands,

Old as the World itself, which it commands ;

Round is its Figure; and four Iron Gates

Divide Mankind, by Order of the Fates.

Thither in Crouds come to one common Grave

The Young, the Old, the Monarch, and the Slave.
Old Age and Pains, thofe Evils Man deplores,
Are rigid Keepers of th' eternal Doors;

All clad in mournful Blacks, which fadly load
The facred Walls of this obfcure Abode:

And Tapers, of a pitchy Subftance made,
With Clouds of Smoke increase the difmal Shade.

A Monster void of Reason and of Sight,

The Goddess is, who sways this Realm of Night:
Her Pow'r extends o'er all things that have Breath,
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 flood,
Yet blushing with the fair ALMERIA'S Blood.
When griev'd ORONTES whose unhappy Flame
Is known to all who e'er converfe with Fame,
His Mind poffefs'd by Fury and Defpair,
Within the facred Temple made this Prayer:

Great Deity! Who in thy Hands do'ft bear
That Iron Scepter which poor Mortals fear;
Who wanting Eyes thy felf, refpecteft none,
And neither spar'ft the Laurel, nor the Crown!
O thou, whom all Mankind in vain withstand,
Each of whofe Blood muft one day ftain thy Hand!

O thou, who ev'ry Eye that fees the Light,
Clofeft for ever in the Shades of Night!
Goddess attend, and hearken to my Grief,
To which thy Pow'r alone can give Relicf,
Alas, I ask not to defer my Fate,

But wifh my hapless Life a fhorter Date,

And that the Earth would in its Bowels hide

A Wretch, whom Heav'n invades on ev'ry fide:
That from the Sight of Day I could remove,

And might have nothing left me but my Love,
Thou only Comforter of Minds opprefs'd;
The Port where weary'd Spirits are at reft
Conductor to Elyfium, take my Life;
My Breast I offer to thy facred Knife :
So just a Grace refufe not, nor despise
A willing, tho' 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 flain of ev'ry Sex and Age,

The

The Blade all reeking in the Gore it shed,

With fever'd Heads and Arms confus'dly spread;
The rapid Flames of a perpetual Fire,

The Groans of Wretches ready to expire:

This Tragick Scene in Terror makes them live,
Till that is forc'd, which they fhould freely give;
Yielding unwillingly what Heav'n will have,
Their Fears eclipfe the Glory of their Grave:
Before thy Face they make indecent Moan,
And feel a hundred Deaths in fearing one;
Thy Flame becomes unhallow'd in their Breast,
And he a Murderer who was a Prieft.

But against me thy ftrongest Forces call,

And on my Head let all the Tempest fall;
No mean Retreat shall any Weakness show,
But calmly I'll expect the fatal Blow;

My Limbs not trembling, in my Mind no Fear,
Plaints in my Mouth, nor in my Eyes a Tear.

Think not that Time, our wonted fure Relief,
That universal Cure for ev'ry Grief,