There a thick Grove of aged Cypress Trees, 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. All clad in mournful Blacks, which fadly load And Tapers, of a pitchy Subftance made, A Monster void of Reason and of Sight, The Goddess is, who sways this Realm of Night: Th' adjoining Places where the Altar flood, Great Deity! Who in thy Hands do'ft bear O thou, who ev'ry Eye that fees the Light, 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: And might have nothing left me but my Love, Others, (their frail and mortal State forgot) Before thy Altars are not to be brought 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 Groans of Wretches ready to expire: This Tragick Scene in Terror makes them live, But against me thy ftrongest Forces call, And on my Head let all the Tempest fall; My Limbs not trembling, in my Mind no Fear, Think not that Time, our wonted fure Relief, |