Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 1) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/273

But when the Cyphers, figur'd in each Fold,
Her Sister's melancholly Story told,
(Strange that she could!) with Silence, she survey'd;
The tragick Piece, and without weeping read:
In such tumultuous Haste her Passions sprung,
They choak'd her Voice, and quite disarm'd her Tongue.
No Room for female Tears; the Furies rise,
Darting vindictive Glances from her Eyes;
And, stung with Rage, she bounds from Place to Place,
While stern Revenge sits low'ring in her Face.
Now the triennial Celebration came,
Observ'd to Bacchus by each Thracian Dame;
When, in the Privacies of Night retir'd,
They act his Rites, with sacred Rapture fir'd:
By Night, the twinkling Cymbals ring around,
While the shrill Notes from Rhodopè resound;
By Night, the Queen, disguis'd, forsakes the Court,
To mingle in the Festival Resort.
Leafs of the curling Vine her Temples shade,
And, with a circling Wreath, adorn her Head:
Adown her Back the Stag's rough Spoils appear,
Light on her Shoulder leans a Cornel Spear.
Thus, in the Fury of the God conceal'd,
Procné her own mad headstrong Passion veil'd;
Now, with her Gang, to the thick Wood she flies,
And with religious Yellings fills the Skies;
The fatal Lodge, as 'twere by chance, she seeks,
And, thro' the bolted Doors, an Entrance breaks;
From thence, her Sister snatching by the Hand,
Mask'd like the ranting Bacchanalian Band,
Within the Limits of the Court she drew,
Shading, with Ivy green, her outward Hue.
But Philomela, conscious of the Place,
Felt new reviving Pangs of her Disgrace;
A shiv'ring Cold prevail'd in ev'ry Part,
And the chill'd Blood ran trembling to her Heart.

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