I pray'd, and strange Convulsions mov'd the Oak,
Which murmur'd, tho' by ambient Winds unshook:
My trembling Hands, and stiff erected Hair,
Exprest all Tokens of uncommon Fear;
Yet both the Earth and sacred Oak I kist,
And scarce cou'd hope, yet still I hop'd the best;
For Wretches, whatsoe'er the Fates divine,
Expound all Omens to their own Design.
But now 'twas Night, when ev'n Distraction wears
A pleasing Look, and Dreams beguile our Cares,
Lo! the same Oak appears before my Eyes,
Nor alter'd in its Shape, nor former Size;
As many Ants the num'rous Branches bear,
The same their Labour, and their frugal Care;
The Branches too a like Commotion found,
And shook th' industrious Creatures on the Ground,
Who, by degrees (what's scarce to be believ'd)
A nobler Form, and larger Bulk receiv'd,
And on the Earth walk'd an unusual Pace,
With manly Strides, and an erected Pace;
Their num'rous Legs, and former Colour lost,
The Insects cou'd 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 mixt uncommon Noise:
But I suspected all was still a Dream,
'Till Telemon to my Apartment came,
Op'ning the Door with an impetuous Haste,
O come, said he, and see your Faith and Hopes surpast:
I follow, and, confus'd with Wonder, view
Those Shapes which my presaging Slumbers drew:
I saw, and own'd, and call'd them Subjects; they
Confest my Pow'r, submissive to my Sway.
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