‘Farewell,’ says he; the parting sound scarce fell
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  From his faint lips, but she replied, ‘Farewell.’ 
  Then on the unwholesome earth he gasping lies,
  Till death shuts up those self-admiring eyes. 
  To the cold shades his flitting ghost retires,
  And in the Stygian waves itself admires. 
     For him the Naiads and the Dryads mourn,
  Whom the sad Echo answers in her turn;
  And now the sister-nymphs prepare his urn: 
  When, looking for his corpse, they only found
  A rising stalk, with yellow blossoms crowned.
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THE STORY OF PENTHEUS.

     This sad event gave blind Tiresias fame,
  Through Greece established in a prophet’s name. 
     The unhallowed Pentheus only durst deride
  The cheated people, and their eyeless guide,
  To whom the prophet in his fury said,
  Shaking the hoary honours of his head;
  ’Twere well, presumptuous man, ’twere well for thee
  If thou wert eyeless too, and blind, like me: 
  For the time comes, nay, ’tis already here,
  When the young god’s solemnities appear;
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  Which, if thou dost not with just rites adorn,
  Thy impious carcase, into pieces torn,
  Shall strew the woods, and hang on every thorn. 
  Then, then, remember what I now foretell,
  And own the blind Tiresias saw too well.’ 
  Still Pentheus scorns him, and derides his skill,
  But time did all the promised threats fulfil. 
  For now through prostrate Greece young Bacchus rode,
  Whilst howling matrons celebrate the god. 
  All ranks and sexes to his orgies ran,
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  To mingle in the pomps, and fill the train. 
  When Pentheus thus his wicked rage express’d;
  ’What madness, Thebans, has your soul possess’d? 
  Can hollow timbrels, can a drunken shout,
  And the lewd clamours of a beastly rout,
  Thus quell your courage? can the weak alarm
  Of women’s yells those stubborn souls disarm,
  Whom nor the sword nor trumpet e’er could fright,
  Nor the loud din and horror of a fight? 
  And you, our sires, who left your old abodes,
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  And fixed in foreign earth your country gods;
  Will you without a stroke your city yield,
  And poorly quit an undisputed field? 
  But you, whose youth and vigour should inspire
  Heroic warmth, and kindle martial fire,
  Whom burnished arms and crested helmets grace,
  Not flowery garlands and a painted face;
  Remember him to whom you stand allied: 
  The serpent for his well of waters died. 
  He fought the strong; do you his courage show,
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  And gain a conquest o’er a feeble foe. 
  If Thebes must fall, oh might the Fates afford
  A nobler doom from famine, fire, or sword! 
  Then might the Thebans perish with renown: 
  But now a beardless victor sacks the town;
  Whom nor the prancing steed, nor ponderous