Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 1) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/309

Book 7. 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 Pray'rs? There Fathers for expiring Sons implor'd, And there the Wife bewail'd her gasping Lord; With pious Off'rings they'd appease the Skies, But they, e're yet th' attoning Vapours rise, Before the Altars fall, themselves a Sacrifice: They fall, while yet their Hands the Gums contain, The Gums surviving, but their Off'rers slain. The destin'd Ox, with holy Garlands crown'd, Prevents the Blow, and feels th' expected Wound: When I my self invok'd the Pow'rs Divine, To drive the fatal Pest from me and mine; When now the Priest with Hands uplifted stood, Prepar'd 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 cou'd be then obtain'd, From putrid Entrails, where th' 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 defie their Pow'r. Then with a curst malicious Joy survey'd The very Altars, stain'd with Trophies of the Dead. The rest grown mad, and frantick with Despair, Urge their own Fate, and so prevent the Fear. Strange Madness, that, when Death pursu'd so fast, T' anticipate the Blow with impious Haste. No decent Honour to their Urns are paid, Nor cou'd the Graves receive the num'rous Dead; For,