“A dreadful plague from angry Juno came,
To scourge the land that bore her rival’s name.
Before her fatal anger was reveal’d,
And teeming malice lay as yet conceal’d,
All remedies we try, all med’cines use,
Which nature could supply, or art produce;
The unconquer’d foe derides the vain design,
And art and nature foil’d, declare the cause divine.
“At first we only felt the oppressive weight
Of gloomy clouds, then teeming with our fate,
And lab’ring to discharge unactive heat:
But ere four moons alternate changes knew,
With deadly blasts the fatal south wind blew,
Infected all the air, and poison’d as it flew
Our fountains too a dire infection yield,
For crowds of vipers creep along the field,
And, with polluted gore, and baneful steams,
Taint all the lakes, and venom all the streams.
“The young disease with milder force began,
And raged on birds and beasts, excusing man.
The lab’ring oxen fall before the plough;
The unhappy ploughmen stare, and wonder how:
The tabid sheep, with sickly bleatings, pines,
Its wool decreasing as its strength declines:
The warlike steed, by inward foes compell’d,
Neglects his honours, and deserts the field,
Unnerved and languid, seeks a base retreat,
And at the manger groans, but wish’d a nobler fate:
The stags forget their speed, the boars their rage,
Nor can the bears the stronger herds engage;
A general faintness does invade them all,
And in the woods and fields promiscuously they fall
The air receives the stench, and, strange to say,
The rav’nous birds and beasts avoid the prey;
The offensive bodies rot upon the ground,
And spread the dire contagion all around.
“But now the plague, grown to a larger size,
Riots on man, and scorns a meaner prize.
Intestine heats begin the civil war,
And flushings first the latent flame declare,
And breath inspired, which seem’d like fiery air.
Their black dry tongues are swell’d, and scarce can move,
And short thick sighs from panting lungs are drove;
They gape for air, with flattering hopes to abate
Their raging flames, but that augments their heat.
No bed, no covering, can the wretches bear,
But on the ground, exposed to open air,
They lie, and hope to find a pleasing coolness there.
The suffering earth, with that oppression cursed,
Returns the heat which they imparted first.
“In vain physicians would bestow their aid,
Vain all their art, and useless all their trade;
And they, even they, who fleeting life recall,
Feel the same powers, and undistinguish’d fall.
If any proves so daring to attend
His sick companion, or his darling friend,
The officious wretch sucks in contagious breath,
And with his friend does sympathize in death.
“And now the care and hopes of life are pass’d,
They please their fancies and indulge their taste:
At brooks and streams, regardless of their shame,
Each sex, promiscuous, strives to quench their flame;
Nor do they strive in vain to quench it there,
For thirst and life at once extinguish’d are.
Thus in the brooks the dying bodies sink,
But heedless still the rash survivers drink.
“So much uneasy down the wretches hate,
They fly their beds, to struggle with their fate,
But if decaying strength forbids to rise,
The victim crawls and rolls, till on the ground he lies:
Each shuns his bed as each would shun his tomb,
And thinks the infection only lodged at home.
“Here one, with fainting steps, does slowly creep
O’er heaps of dead, and straight augments the heap:
Another, while his strength and tongue prevail’d,
Bewails his friend, and falls himself, bewail’d:
This, with imploring looks, surveys the skies,
The last dear office of his closing eyes,
But finds the heavens implacable, and dies.
“What now, ah, what! empioy’d my troubled mind,
But only hopes my subjects’ fate to find?
What place soe’er my weeping eyes survey,
There in lamented heaps the vulgar lay;
As acorns scatter when the winds prevail,
Or mellow fruit from shaken branches fall.
“You see that dome which rears its front so high.
’Tis sacred to the monarch of the sky:
How many there, with unregarded tears,
And fruitless vows, sent up successless prayers!
There fathers for expiring sons implored,
And there the wife bewail’d her gasping lord:
With pious offerings they appease the skies,
But they, ere yet the atoning vapours rise,
Before the altars fall, themselves a sacrifice;
They fall while yet their hands the gums contain,
Their gums surviving, but their offerer’s slain.
“The destined ox, with holy garlands crown’d,
Prevents the blow, and feels an unexpected wound.
When I myself invoked the powers divine,
To drive the fatal pest from me and mine:
When now the priest with hands uplifted stood,
Prepared to strike, and shed the sacred blood,
The gods themselves the mortal stroke bestow,
The victim falls, but they impart the blow:
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.