Classic Poem

I am no Deity, reply'd the Dame,
But Mortal, and religious Rites disclaim.
Yet had avoided Death's tyrannick Sway,
Had I consented to the God of Day.
With Promises he sought my Love, and said,
Have all you wish, my fair Cumaean Maid.
I paus'd; then pointing to a Heap of Sand,
For ev'ry Grain, to live a Year, demand.
But ah! unmindful of th' Effect of Time,
Forgot to covenant for Youth, and Prime
The smiling Bloom, I boasted once, is gone,
And feeble Age with lagging Limbs creeps on.
Sev'n Cent'ries have I liv'd; Three more fulfil
The Period of the Years to finish still.
Who'll think that Phaebus , drest in Youth Divine;
Had once believ'd his Lustre less than mine?
This wither'd Frame (so Fates have will'd) shall waste
To nothing, but Prophetick Words, at last.
The Sibyll mounting now from nether Skies,
And the fam'd Ilian Prince, at Cuma rise.
He sail'd, and near the Place to Anchor came,
Since call'd Cajeta from his Nurse's Name.
Here did the luckless Macareus , a Friend
To wise Ulysses , his long Labours end.
Here, wandring Achemenides he meets,
And, sudden, thus his late Associate greets.
Whence came you here, O Friend, and whither bound?
All gave you lost on far Cyclopean Ground;
A Greek's at last aboard a Frojan found.