But now the troubled times of tumult past,
The reign of superstition comes at last.
The fatted calf, the milk white heifer slay,
And feasts prepare for Herod's natal day.
Let colour'd lamps from every window beam,
Fat clouds of incense rise in oily steam,
Bright censers burn with flowery garlands crown'd,
And blooming violets breathe odours round.
Let hungry Jews at your rich banquets sup,
And wines luxuriant sparkle in their cup.
In whispers mutter the mysterious prayer,
And tremble at the rites yourselves prepare.
Now fancied evils fill you with affright,
Omens by day, and visions in the night:
Cybebe's shrines you visit with her priests,
Behold their orgies, and partake their feasts.
While the blind priestess incantations makes,
And o'er your heads the sounding sistrum shakes;
With direful omens all your souls alarms,
And guards you round with amulets and charms.
Now should you teach this doctrine to the crowd,
Some military fool would laugh aloud,
At a clipp'd farthing all the sages prize,
Whom Athens valued, and whom Greece thought wise.