“The destined ox, with holy garlands crown’d, Prevents the blow, and feels an unexpected wound. When I myself invoked the powers divine, To drive the fatal pest from me and mine: When now the priest with hands uplifted stood, Prepared to strike, and shed the sacred blood, The gods themselves the mortal stroke bestow, The victim falls, but they impart the blow: Scarce was the knife with the pale purple stain’d, And no presages could be then obtain’d, From putrid entrails, where the infection reign’d.

“Death stalk’d around with such resistless sway, The temples of the gods his force obey, And suppliants feel his stroke while yet they pray. ‘Go now,’ said he, ‘your deities implore For fruitless aid, for I defy their power;’ Then with a cursed, malicious joy survey’d The very altars, stain’d with trophies of the dead.

“The rest grown mad, and frantic with despair, Urge their own fate, and so prevent the fear. Strange madness that, when death pursued so fast, To anticipate the blow with impious haste.