Was forced to aid the tardy stroke of death: 
    With pangs I yielded to her piercing cries,
    To speed her passage to the nether skies;
    And worse than death endured, her mind to save
    From shame, more hateful than the yawning grave.—­
    What was my anguish, when she seized the bowl,
    She knows! and you, whose sympathising soul
    Has felt the fiery shaft, may guess my pains—­
    Now tears and anguish are her sole remains. 
    That treasure, to preserve my faith to Rome,
    Those hands committed to th’ untimely tomb;
    And every hope and joy of life resign’d
    To keep the stain of falsehood from my mind. 
    But hasten, and the moving pomp survey,
    (The light-wing’d moments brook no long delay),
    To try if any form your notice claims
    Among those love-lorn youths and amorous dames.”—­
    With poignant grief I heard his tale of woe,
    That seem’d to melt my heart like vernal snow,
    When a low voice these sullen accents sung:—­
    “Not for himself, but those from whom he sprung,
    He merits fate; for I detest them all
    To whose fell rage I owe my country’s fall.” 
    “Oh, calm your rage, unhappy Queen!” I cried;
    “Twice was the land and sea in slaughter dyed
    By cruel Carthage, till the sentence pass’d
    That laid her glories in the dust at last.”—­
    “Yet mournful wreaths no less the victors crown’d;
    In deep despair our valour oft they own’d. 
    Your own impartial annals yet proclaim
    The Punic glory and the Roman shame.” 
    She spoke—­and with a smile of hostile spite
    Join’d the deep train, and darken’d to my sight. 
    Then, as a traveller through lands unknown
    With care and keen observance journeys on;
    Whose dubious thoughts his eager steps retard,
    Thus through the files I pass’d with fix’d regard;
    Still singling some amid the moving show,
    Intent the story of their loves to know. 
    A spectre now within my notice came,
    Though dubious marks of joy, commix’d with shame,
    His features wore, like one who gains a boon
    With secret glee, which shame forbids to own,
    O dire example of the Demon’s power! 
    The father leaves the hymeneal bower
    For his incestuous son; the guilty spouse
    With transport mix’d with honour, meets his vows! 
    In mournful converse now, amidst the host,
    Their compact they bewail’d, and Syria lost! 
    Instant, with eager step, I turn’d aside,
    And met the double husband, and the bride,
    And with an earnest voice the first address’d:—­
    A look of dread the spectre’s face express’d,
    When first the accents of victorious Rome
    Brought to his mind his kingdom’s ancient doom. 
    At length, with many a doleful sigh, he said,
    “You here behold Seleucus’ royal shade.