From his yet reeking neck to draw the yoke, (That neck with which the surly clods he broke,) And to the hatchet yield thy husbandman, Who finished autumn, and the spring began! Nor this alone; but, heaven itself to bribe, We to the gods our impious acts ascribe; First recompense with death their creatures' toil, Then call the blessed above to share the spoil: The fairest victim must the powers appease; So fatal 'tis, sometimes, too much to please! A purple fillet his broad brows adorns, With flowery garlands crowned, and gilded horns; He hears the murderous prayer the priest prefers, But understands not, 'tis his doom he hears; Beholds the meal betwixt his temples cast, The fruit and product of his labours past; And in the water views, perhaps, the knife Uplifted, to deprive him of his life; Then, broken up alive, his entrails sees Torn out, for priests to inspect the gods' decrees. From whence, O mortal men, this gust of blood Have you derived, and interdicted food? Be taught by me this dire delight to shun, Warned by my precepts, by my practice won; And when you eat the well-deserving beast, Think, on the labourer of your field you feast! Now since the God inspires me to proceed, Be that whate'er inspiring Power obeyed. For I will sing of mighty mysteries, } Of truths concealed before from human eyes, } Dark oracles unveil, and open all the skies. } Pleased as I am to walk along the sphere Of shining stars, and travel with the year, To leave the heavy earth, and scale the height Of Atlas, who supports the heavenly weight; To look from upper light, and thence survey Mistaken mortals wandering from the way, And, wanting wisdom, fearful for the state Of future things, and trembling at their fate! Those I would teach; and by right reason bring To think of death, as but an idle thing. Why thus affrighted at an empty name, A dream of darkness, and fictitious flame? Vain themes of wit, which but in poems pass, And fables of a world, that never was! What feels the body when the soul expires, By time corrupted, or consumed by fires? Nor dies the spirit, but new life repeats In other forms, and only changes seats. Even I, who these mysterious truths declare, Was once Euphorbus in the Trojan war; My name and lineage I remember well, And how in fight by Sparta's king I fell. In Argive Juno's fane I late beheld My buckler hung on high, and owned my former shield. Then death, so called, is but old matter dressed In some new figure, and a varied vest; Thus all things are but altered, nothing dies, And here and there the unbodied spirit flies, By time, or force, or sickness dispossest, And lodges, where it lights, in man or beast;