For his frenzied soul Heaven knew too little.

And the spot itself Kindled his madness, for hard by there dwelt The brood of Haemon (30) whom no storied witch Of fiction e'er transcended; all their art In things most strange and most incredible; There were Thessalian rocks with deadly herbs Thick planted, sensible to magic chants, Funereal, secret: and the land was full Of violence to the gods: the Queenly guest (31) From Colchis gathered here the fatal roots That were not in her store: hence vain to heaven Rise impious incantations, all unheard; For deaf the ears divine: save for one voice Which penetrates the furthest depths of airs Compelling e'en th' unwilling deities To hearken to its accents.

Not the care Of the revolving sky or starry pole Can call them from it ever.

Once the sound Of those dread tones unspeakable has reached The constellations, then nor Babylon Nor secret Memphis, though they open wide The shrines of ancient magic and entreat The gods, could draw them from the fires that smoke Upon the altars of far Thessaly.
To hearts of flint those incantations bring Love, strange, unnatural; the old man's breast Burns with illicit fire.

Nor lies the power In harmful cup nor in the juicy pledge Of love maternal from the forehead drawn; (32) Charmed forth by spells alone the mind decays, By poisonous drugs unharmed.