Scarce was the knife with the pale purple stain’d,
And no presages could be then obtain’d,
From putrid entrails, where the infection reign’d.
“Death stalk’d around with such resistless sway,
The temples of the gods his force obey,
And suppliants feel his stroke while yet they pray.
‘Go now,’ said he, ‘your deities implore
For fruitless aid, for I defy their power;’
Then with a cursed, malicious joy survey’d
The very altars, stain’d with trophies of the dead.
“The rest grown mad, and frantic with despair,
Urge their own fate, and so prevent the fear.
Strange madness that, when death pursued so fast,
To anticipate the blow with impious haste.
“No decent honours to their urns are paid,
Nor could the graves receive the numerous dead;
For, or they lay unburied on the ground,
Or, unadorn’d, a needy funeral found:
All reverence past, the fainting wretches fight
For funeral piles which were another’s right.
Unmourn’d they fall, for who survived to mourn?
And sires and mothers unlamented burn;
Parents and sons sustain an equal fate,
And wandering ghosts their kindred shadows meet:
The dead a larger space of ground require,
Nor are the trees sufficient for the fire.
“Despairing under grief’s oppressive weight,
And sunk by these tempestuous blasts of fate,
‘O Jove,’ said I, ‘if common fame says true,
If e’er Aegina gave those joys to you,
If e’er you lay enclosed in her embrace,
Fond of her charms, and eager to possess;
O father, if you do not yet disclaim
Paternal care, nor yet disown the name,
Grant my petitions, and with speed restore
My subjects numerous as they were before,
Or make me partner of the fate they bore.’
I spoke, and glorious lightning shone around,
And rattling thunder gave a prosperous sound:
‘So let it be, and may these omens prove
A pledge,’ said I, ‘of your returning love.’
“By chance a reverend oak was near the place,
Sacred to Jove, and of Dodona’s race,
Where frugal ants laid up their winter meat,
Whose little bodies bear a mighty weight:
We saw them march along, and hide their store,
And much admired their number and their power;
Admired at first, but after envied more.
Full of amazement, thus to Jove I pray’d:
‘O grant, since thus my subjects are decay’d,
As many subjects to supply the dead.’
I pray’d, and strange convulsions moved the oak,
Which murmur’d, though by ambient winds unshook:
My trembling hands and stiff-erected hair
Express’d all tokens of uncommon fear;
Yet both the earth and sacred oak I kiss’d,
And scarce could hope, yet still I hoped the best;
For wretches, whatsoe’er the Fates divine,
Expound all omens to their own design.
“But now ’twas night, when even distraction wears
A pleasing look, and dreams beguile our cares:
Lo! the same oak appears before my eyes,
Nor alter’d in his shape nor former size;
As many ants the numerous branches bear,
The same their labour and their frugal care;
The branches too a like commotion found,
And shook the industrious creatures on the ground,
Who by degrees (what’s scarce to be believed)
A nobler form and larger bulk received,
And on the earth walk’d an unusual pace,
With manly strides and an erected face:
Their numerous legs and former colour lost,
The insects could a human figure boast.
“I wake, and, waking, find my cares again,
And to the unperforming gods complain,
And call their promise and pretences vain.
Yet in my court I heard the murm’ring voice
Of strangers, and a mix’d, uncommon noise:
But I suspected all was still a dream,
Till Telamon to my apartment came,
Opening the door with an impetuous haste—
‘O come,’ said he, ‘and see your faith and hopes surpass’d.’
I follow, and, confused with wonder, view
Those shapes which my presaging slumbers drew:
I saw, and own’d, and call’d them subjects; they
Confess’d my power, submissive to my sway.
To Jove, restorer of my race decay’d,
My vows were first with due oblations paid;
I then divide, with an impartial hand,
My empty city, and my ruin’d land,
To give the newborn youth an equal share,
And call them Myrmidons, from what they were.
You saw their persons, and they still retain
The thrift of ants, though now transform’d to men;
A frugal people, and inured to sweat,
Lab’ring to gain, and keeping what they get.
These, equal both in strength and years, shall join
Their willing aid, and follow your design,
With the first southern gale that shall present
To fill your sails, and favour your intent.”
With such discourse they entertain the day;
The evening pass’d in banquets, sport, and play;
Then, having crown’d the night with sweet repose,
Aurora (with the wind at east) arose.
Now Pallas’ sons to Cephalus resort,
And Cephalus with Pallas’ sons to court,
To the king’s levee; him sleep’s silken chain
And pleasing dreams beyond his hour detain;
But then the princes of the blood, in state,
Expect and meet them at the palace gate.
Story of Cephalus and Procris
Cephalus, in his turn, relates to Aeacus his adventures during his absence from his wife Procris, whose constancy he overcomes by profuse presents in the disguise of a stranger—The matron flies from the presence of her husband, who at length prevails on her to return with promises of forgiveness—Her jealousy is in like manner excited, and her unfounded suspicions direct her to an adjoining wood, where Cephalus is hunting; and he, mistaking her for a wild beast, transfixes her with a dart; and she expires in the arms of her agonized husband.
To the inmost courts the Grecian youths were led,
And placed by Phocus on a Tyrian bed,
Who, soon observing Cephalus to hold
A dart of unknown wood, but arm’d with gold—
“None better loves,” said he, “the huntsman’s sport,
Or does more often to the woods resort,
Yet I that javelin’s stem with wonder view,
Too brown for box, too smooth a grain for yew
I cannot guess the tree; but never art
Did form, or eyes behold, so fair a dart!”
The guest then interrupts him:—“ ’Twould produce
Still greater wonder, if you knew its use:
It never fails to strike the game, and then
Comes bloody back into your hand again.”
Then Phocus each particular desires,
And the author of the wondrous gifts inquires;
To which the owner thus, with weeping eyes,
And sorrow for his wife’s sad fate, replies;
“This weapon here, O prince! can you believe
This dart the cause for which so much I grieve,
And shall continue to grieve on, till Fate
Afford such wretched life no longer date?
Would I this fatal gift had ne’er enjoy’d;
This fatal gift my tender wife destroy’d;
Procris her
