But instant Vengeance shall thy Sin pursue,
And Death is chear'd with this prophetick View.
At last the Oak with Cords enforc'd to bow,
Strain'd from the Top, and sap'd with Wounds below,
The humbler Wood, Partaker of its Fate,
Crush'd with its Fall, and shiver'd with its Weight.
The Grove destroy'd, the Sister Dryads moan,
Griev'd at its Loss, and frighted at their own.
Strait, Suppliants for Revenge, to Ceres go,
In sable Weeds, expressive of their Woe.
The beauteous Goddess with a graceful Air
Bow'd in Consent, and nodded to their Pray'r.
The awful Motion shook the fruitful Ground,
And wav'd the Fields with golden Harvests crown'd.
Soon she contrived in her projecting Mind
A Plague severe, and piteous in its Kind,
(If Plagues for Crimes of such presumptuous Height
Could Pity in the softest Breast create.)
With pinching Want, and Hunger's keenest Smart,
To tear his Vitals, and corrode his Heart.
But since her near Approach by Fate's deny'd
To Famine, and broad Climes their Pow'rs divide,
A Nymph, the Mountain's Ranger, she address'd,
And thus resolv'd, her high Commands express'd.
The Description of Famine.
Where frozen Scythia's utmost Bound is plac'd,
A Desart lies, a melancholy Waste:
In yellow Crops there Nature never smil'd,
No fruitful Tree to shade the barren Wild.
There sluggish Cold its icy Station makes,
There Paleness, Frights, and anguish Trembling shakes.
Of pining Famine this the fated Seat,
To whom my Orders in these Words repeat:
