Of oaken Twigs they twift an easy Bier
Then on their Shoulders the fad Burthen rear.
The Body on this rural Herfe is borne:

Strew'd Leaves and funeral Greens the Bier adorn.
Then Two fair Vests of wond'rous Work and Coft,
Of Purple woven, and with Gold emboss'd,
For Ornament the Trojan Hero brought;
One Veft array'd the Corps, and one they fpread
O'er his clos'd Eyes, and wrap'd around his Head
That when the yellow Hair in Flame should fall,
The catching Fire might burn the golden Caul.
Befides, the Spoils of Foes in Battel flain,
Arms, Trappings, Horfes, by the Herfe are led
In long Array, (th'Atchievments of the Dead.)
Then, pinion'd with their Hands behind, appear
Th'unhappy Captives, marching in the Rear:
Appointed Off'rings in the Victor's Name,
To fprinkle with their Blood the fun'ral Flame.
Inferior Trophys by the Chiefs are borne,
Guantlets and Helms their loaded Hands adorn:
And fair Infcriptions fix'd, and Titles Read,
Of Latian Leaders conquer'd by the Dead..
Acates on his Pupil's Corps attends,

With feeble Steps, fupported by his Friends:
Paufing at ev'ry Pace.

The Champions Chariot next is feen to roul,
Befmear'd with hoftile Blood, and honourably foul.
To close the Pomp, Ethon, the Steed of State,

Is led, the Fun'rals of his Lord to wait:

Stript of his Trappings, with a fullen Pace

He walks; and the big Tears run rouling down his Face,
The Lance of Pallas, and the crimson Crest

Are born behind; the Victor fiez'd the reft.

The March begins: The Trumpets hoarfly Sound
The Pikes and Lances trail along the Ground.

In long Proceffion rank'd, they thus dire& their Course
To Pallantean Tow'rs.

Rufhing from out the Gate, the People stand,
Each with a Fun'ral Flambeaux in his Hand:
Wildly they ftare, diftracted with Amaze:
The Fields are lighten'd with a fiery Blaze,
That caft a fullen Splendor on their Friends,
The marching Troop, which their dead Prince attends.
Both Parties meet; they raise a doleful Cry,

The Matrons from the Walls with Shrieks reply:
And their mixt Mourning rends the vaulted Sky.

The Town is fill'd with Tumult and with Tears. Dryd. Virg.

Grecian

Grecian FUNERAL.
The Peafants were enjoin'd

Sere-Wood, and Firs, and dodder'd Oaks to find.
With founding Axes to the Grove they go,
Fell, fplit, and lay the Fewel on a Row;
Vulcanian Food: A Bier is next prepar'd,
On which the lifeless Body should be rear'd,
Cover'd with Cloth of Gold, on which was laid
The Corps of Arcite in like Robes array'd.
White Gloves were on his Hands, and on his Head
A Wreath of Lawrel mixt with Myrtle, fpread.
A Sword keen-edg'd within his Right he held,
The warlike Emblem of the conquer'd Field:
Bare was his manly Vifage on the Bier;
Menac'd his Count'nance, ev'n in Death fevere.
Then to the Palace-Hall they bore the Knight,
To lie in folemn State, a publick Sight:
Groans, Cries, and Howlings fill the crowded Place,
And unaffected Sorrow fate on ev'ry Face.
Sad Palamon above the rest appears,

1

In fable Garments, dew'd with gufhing Tears:
His auborn Locks on either Shoulder flow'd,
Which to the Fun'ral of his Friend he vow'd.
But Emily, as Chief, was next his Side,
A Virgin Widow, and a Mourning Bride.
The Steed that bore him living to the Fight,
Was trapp'd with polifh'd Steel, all fhining bright,
And cover'd with th' Achievements of the Knight.
The Riders rode abreaft, and one his Shield,
His Lance of Cornel-Wood another held;
The third his Bow: And glorious to behold,
The coftly Quiver, all of burnish'd Gold,
The nobleft of the Grecians next appear,

And weeping, on their Shoulders bore the Bier
With fober Pace they march'd, and often ftay'd,
And thro' the Mafter-street the Corps convey'd.
The Houses to their Tops with Black were fpread,
And ev❜n the Pavements were with Mourning hid.
The right Side of the Pall old Egeus kept,

And on the left the royal Thefeus wept:

Each bore a golden Bowl of Work divine,

With Honey fill'd, and Milk; and mixe with ruddy Wine
Then Palamon, the Kinfman of the Slain,

And after him appear'd th'illuftrious Train.
To grace the Pomp came mily the bright,

With cover'd Fire, the fun'ral Pile to light.
So lofty was the Pile, a Parthian Bow,
With Vigour drawn, muft fend the Shaft below.

}

The

The Bottom was full twenty Fathom broad,
With crackling Straw beneath in due Proportion ftrow'd.
The Fabrick feem'd a Wood of rifing Green,
With Sulphur and Bitumen caft between,

To feed the Flames: The Trees were unctuous Fir,
And Mountain Afh, the Mother of the Spear;
The Mourner Eugh, and Builder Oak were there.
The Beech, the fwimming Alder, and the Plane,
Hard Box, and Linden of a fofter Grain;

And Laurel, which the Gods for conqu'ring Chiefs ordain.
The Straw was laid below;

Of Chips and Seer-Wood was the fecond Row ;
The third of Greens, and Timber newly fell'd;
The fourth high Stage the fragrant Odours held,
And Pearls, and precious Stones, and rich Array;
In Midft of which, embalm'd, the Body lay.
The Service fung, the Maid with mourning Eyes
The Stubble fir'd; the fmouldring Flames arife.
While the devouring Fire was burning faft,
Rich Jewels in the Flame the Wealthy caft;

And fome their Shields, and fome their Lances threw,
And gave the Warriour's Ghost a Warriour's Due.
Full Bowls of Wine, of Honey, Milk, and Blood,
Were pour'd upon the Pile of burning Wood

;

And hiffing Flames receive, and hungry lick the Food.
Then thrice the mounted Squadrons ride around
The Fire, and Arcite's Name they thrice refound:
Hail and Farewel they fhouted thrice amain;

Thrice facing to the Left, and thrice they turn'd again.
Still as they turn'd they beat their clatt'ring Shields,
The Women mix their Cries, and Clamour fills the Fields.
The warlike Wakes continu'd all the Night,

(Pal. & Arc

And fun'ral Games were play'd at new-returning Light. Dry. FURIES. See Alecto.

Deep in the difmal Regions void of Light,

Three Daughters at a Birth were born to Night:

These their brown Mother, brooding on her Care,

Indu'd with windy Wings to flit in Air,

With Serpents girt alike, and crown'd with biffing Hair.
In Heav'n the Dire call'd; and still at hand,
Before the Throne of angry Jove they ftand;
His Minifters of Wrath! and ready ftill,
The Minds of mortal Men with Fears to fill:
Whene'er the moody Sire, to wreak his Hate,
On Realms or Towns, deferving of their Fate,
Hurls down Difeafes, Death, and deadly Care,
And terrifies the guilty World with War.

Dryd. Virg.
Infernal

Infernal Offsprings of the Night,
Debarr'd of Heav'n, their native Right;
And from the glorious Fields of Light,
Condemn'd in Shades to drag the Chain,
And fill with Groans the gloomy Plain :
Whofe Good is Ill, whofe Joy is Woe;
Whofe Work's t'embroil the Worlds above,

Disturb their Union, difunite their Love,

(Alb. & Alban.

And blaft the beauteous Frame of their victorious Foe. Dryd. FUTURITY.

Diftraft and Darkness of a future State,

Make poor Mankind fo fearful of their Fate.

Death in it felf is nothing, but we fear

To be we know not what, we know not where. Dryd, Auren,
To be or not to be! that is the Question!
Whether 'tis nobler in the Mind to fuffer
The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of Troubles,.
And by oppofing end them? To die! to fleep!
No more! and by a Sleep to fay we end
The Heart-ach, and the thousand nat'ral Shocks
That Flesh is Heir to! 'Tis a Confummation
Devoutly to be wifh'd. To die! to fleep!
To fleep, .perchance to dream! I, there's the Rub;
For in that Sleep of Death what Dreams may come,
When we have fhuffl'd off this mortal Goyle,
Muft give us Paufe. There's the Refpect
That makes Calamity of fo long Life:

For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of Time,
Th'Oppreffor's Wrong, the poor Man's Contumely,
The Pangs of difpriz'd Love, the Law's Delay,
The Infolence of Office, and the Spurns
That patient Merit of th'Unworthy takes,
When he himself might his Quietus make

With a bare Bodkin. Who would thefe Fardles bear,
To groan and fweat under a weary Life,

But that the Dread of fomething after Death,
The undiscover'd Country, from whofe Borne
No Traveller returns, puzzles the Will,
And makes us rather bear those Ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus Confcience does make Cowards of us all,
And thus the native Hue of Refolution
Is fickled o'er with the pale Caft of Thought;
And Enterprizes of great Pith and Moment,
With this Regard their Currents turn away,
And lofe the Name of Action.

Shak. Ham

In whatsoever Character

The Book of Fate is writ,

'Tis well we understand not it :

We fhould grow mad with too much Learning there:
Upon the Brink of ev'ry Ill we did forefee,
Undecently and foolishly,

We should stand fhiv'ring, and but slowly venture
The fatal Flood to enter.

Since willing or unwilling we must do it,

They feel leaft Cold and Pain who plunge at once into it. Cowt. Then ask not Bodies doom'd to die,

To what Abode they go ;

Since Knowledge is but Sorrow's Spy;
'Tis better not to know.

Divines but peep on undifcover'd Worlds,
And draw the diftant Landskip as they pleafe:
But who has e'er return'd from thofe bright Regions;
To tell their Manners and relate their Laws?

Think, timely think, on the laft dreadful Day,
How you will tremble there to stand expos'd
The foremost in the Rank of guilty Ghosts,

Dave

Dryd. Don Seb:

That must be doom'd for Murther! think on Murther!
That Troop is plac'd apart from common Crimes:

The Damn'd themfelves ftart wide, and fhun that Band,
As far more black and more forlorn than they.

'Tis terrible! it fhakes, it ftaggers me:

I know this Truth, but I repell'd the Thought:
Sure there is none but fears a future State;

And when the moft Obdurate fwear they do not,

(Fr.

Their trembling Hearts belie their boafting Tongues. Dr. Span. Confider former Ages paft and gone,

Whofe Circles ended long e'er thine begun:

Then tell me, Fool, what Part in them thou haft;
Thus may'st thou judge the Future by the Paft.
What Horrour feeft thou in that quiet State?
What bugbear Dreams to fright thee after Fare?
No Ghofts, no Goblins, that ftill Paffage keep,
But all is there ferene in that eternal Sleep.
For all the dismal Tales that Poets tell,
Are verify'd on Earth, and not in Hell:

No Tantalus looks up with fearful Eye,

Or dreads th'impending Rk to crush him from on high
But fear of Chance on Earth difturbs our cafy Hours,
Or vain-imagin'd Wrath of vain-imagin'd Pow'rs.

No Tityus torn by Vultures lies in Hell;
Nor could the Lobes of his rank Liver fwell
To that prodigious Mafs for their eternal Meal.

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