For what I'm punish'd, whence these plagues arose,
And by what means I may retrieve my lofs:
This faid, the angry God with fury shook,
His eyes fhot flame, and horror chang'd his Look,
He gnash'd his Teeth, and thus at last he spoke.
No common Gods, no common Gods pursue,
Thou fuffer'st what to thy great Crimes is due;
At wretched Orpheus fuit these Plagues commence,
Tho' (Fate being kind) too fmall for thy offence.
To Heaven's strict Juftice he his wrongs apply'd,
And call'd down vengeance for his perish'd Bride:
She, while fhe fled from thee, unhappy Maid,
By heedless fear to treacherous Banks betray'd,
Ne're faw the Snake glide o're the graffie Ground,
But e're she knew the Foe, fhe felt the Wound:
Her fellow Dryads fill'd the Hills with cries,
In groans the soften'd Rhodope replies;
Rough Thrace, the Getes,and Hebrus ftreams lament, Forget their fury, and in grief consent:
While he to doleful tunes his ftrings does move, And ftrove to folace his uneafie Love::
Thee, Thee, Dear Bride, on Defart fhoars alone He mourn'd at rifing, and at fetting Sun:
His reftlefs Love did natural Fears expel,
He dar'd to enter the black Jaws of Hell,
He faw the Grove, where gloomy horrors spread,
The Ghosts and ghaftly Tyrant of the dead;
With thofe rough Pow'rs, that there feverely reign,
Unus'd to pity, when poor men complain:
He ftrook his Harp, and ftrait a numerous throng
Of Airy people fled to hear the Song,
Thither vaft troops of wretched Lovers came,
And fhriekt at the remembrance of their Flame;
With heavy grief and gloomy thoughts oppreft,
Meagre each fhape, and wounds in every breast,
(How deep, ah me! and wide must mine appear,
If so much Beauty can be fo fevere!) (Wives,
With thefe, mixt troops of Fathers, Husbands,
As thick as swarms of Bees fly round their Hives
At Evening close, or when a Tempest drives:
With Ghosts of Heroes, and of Babes expos'd,
And Sons whofe dying eyes their Mothers clos'd:
Which now the dull unnavigable Flood,
With black Cocytus horrid weeds and mud,
And Styx, in nine large Channels spread, confine:
The wondrous numbers foft'ned all beneath,
Hell, and the inmost flinty seats of Death;
Snakes round the Furies heads did upward rear,
And feem'd to listen to the pleasing Air;
While fiery Styx in milder streams did rowl,
And Cerberus gap'd, but yet forbore to howl,
Ixion's Wheel ftood still, all Tortures ceast,
And Hell amaz'd knew an unusual rest.
All dangers past beyond the reach of fear, Reftor'd Euridice breath'd the upper air, Following behind (for mov'd by his complaint Hell added this condition to the grant) When fury foon the heedlefs Lover seiz❜d, (To be forgiven, if Hell cou'd be appeas'd) For near the Confines of Ætherial Air, Unmindful, and unable to forbear, Hestopt,look'd back, (what cannot love perswade?) To take one view of the unhappy Maid:
Here all his Pains were loft, one greedy look
Defeats his hopes, and Hell's conditions broke,
Thrice Stix refounded, thrice Averne fhook:
A fatal Messenger from Pluto flew,
And snatch'd the forfeit from a fecond veiw:
Backward fhe fell; Ah me! too greedy Youth,
(She cry'd) what fury now hath ruin'd both!
Death fummons me again, cold Fates surprise,
And Icy Sleep spreads o're my nodding eyes:
Wrapt up in night I feel the Stygian fhore,
And stretch my arms to thee in vain,ah thine no more!
This scarc'd pronounc'd, like smoke disperst in air,
So vanish'd the twice-loft unhappy Fair;
And left him catching at the flying shade:
He stood distracted, much he would have faid,
In vain; for Charon wou'd not waft him o're,
Once he had pass'd, and now must hope no more
What should he do? Where fhould he seek repose?
Where flie the trouble of his fecond lofs?
In what foft numbers should the wretch complain,
And beg his dear Euridice again?
She now grew cold in Charon's Boat beneath,
And fadly fail'd to the known feats of Death;
But while nine circling months in order turn'd,
Beneath bleak rocks(thus Fame reports)he mourn'd:
By freezing Strymon's unfrequented Stream,
Euridice, his loft Euridice, his Theme;
And while he fang this fad event of Love,
He tam'd fierce Tygers, and made Oaks to move:
With fuch foft Tunes, and fuch a doleful Song
Sweet Nightingales bewail their ravisht young,
Which fome hard-hearted Swain hath born away.
While Callow Birds, or kill'd the easie prey;
Restless they fit, renew their mournful strains,
And with fad Paffion fill their neighb'ring Plains.
No face cou'd win him,and no charms cou'd move,
He fled the heinous thoughts of fecond Love:
In vain the Thracians woo'd, Wit, Wealth, Esteem,
Those great Enticers, loft their force on him:
Alone he wander'd thro' the Scythian Snows,
Where Icy Tanais freezeth as it flows,
Thro' fields ftill white with froft, or beat with hail,
Constant to Grief, and eager to bewail:
Euridice, the Gods vain gift, employs
His thoughts, and makes him deaf to other joys,
The flighted Thracians heat this Scorn increaft,
They breath'd Revenge, and fir'd at Bacchus feast,
(For what so foon as wine makes fury burn?
And what can wound a Maid fo deep as fcorn?)
Full of their God they wretched Orpheus tore,
Scater'd his limbs, and drank his reeking gore:
His Head torn off, as Hebrus roll❜d along,
Eurydice fell from his dying Tongue.
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