Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/31

Book 8. The Brand, amid the flaming Fewel thrown, Or drew, or seem'd to draw, a dying Groan: The Fires themselves but faintly lick'd their Prey, Then loath'd their impious Food, and would have shrunk away. Just then the Heroe cast a doleful cry, And in those absent Flames began to fry: The blind Contagion rag'd within his Veins; But he with manly Patience bore his Pains: He fear'd not Fate, but only griev'd to die Without an honest Wound, and by a Death so dry. Happy Ancæus, thrice aloud he cry'd, With what becoming Fate in Arms he dy'd! Then call'd his Brothers, Sisters, Sire around, And her to whom his Nuptial Vows were bound: Perhaps his Mother; a long sigh he drew, And his Voice failing, took his last Adieu. For as the Flames augment, and as they stay At their full Height, then languish to decay, They rise and sink by Fits; at last they soar In one bright Blaze, and then descend no more. Just so his inward Heats, at height, impair, Till the last burning Breath shoots out the Soul in Air. Now lofty Calidon in Ruins lies; All Ages, all Degrees unsluice their Eyes; And Heav'n, and Earth resound with Murmurs, Groans, and Cries. Matrons and Maidens beat their Breasts, and tear Their Habits, and root up their scatter'd Hair: The wretched Father, Father now no more, With Sorrow sunk, lies prostrate on the Floor, Deforms his hoary Locks with Dust obscene, And curses Age, and loaths a Life prolong'd with Pain. By Steel her stubborn Soul his Mother freed, And punish'd on her self her impious Deed. Rh