Book VII

Late, and unwilling, from his watery bed,
Uprear'd the mournful sun his cloudy head;
He sicken'd to behold Emathia's plain,
And would have sought the backward east again:
Full oft he turn'd him from the destin'd race,
And wish'd some dark eclipse might veil his radiant face.
Pompey, meanwhile, in pleasing visions pass'd
The night, of all his happy nights the last.
It seem'd as if, in all his former state,
In his own theatre secure he sate:
About his side unnumber'd Romans crowd,
And, joyful, shout his much-lov'd name aloud;
The echoing benches seem to ring around,
And his charm'd ears devour the pleasing sound
Such both himself, and such the people seem,
In the false prospect of the feigning dream;
As when, in early manhood's beardless bloom,
He stood the darling hope and joy of Rome.
When fierce Sertorius by his arms suppress'd,
And Spain subdued, the conqueror confess'd;
When rais'd with honours never known before,
The consul's purple, yet a youth, he wore:
When the pleas'd senate sat with new delight,
To view the triumph of a Roman knight.
Perhaps, when our good days no longer last,
The mind runs backward, and enjoys the past:
Perhaps, the riddling visions of the night
With contrarieties delude our sight;
And when fair scenes of pleasure they disclose,
Pain they foretel, and sure ensuing woes.
Or was it not, that, since the fates ordain
Pompey should never see his Rome again,
One last good office yet they meant to do,
And gave him in a dream this parting view?
Oh, may no trumpet bid the leader wake!
Long, let him long, the blissful slumber take!
Too soon the morrow's sleepless night will come,
Full fraught with slaughter, misery, and Rome;
With horror, and dismay, those shades shall rise,
And the lost battle live before his eyes.
How bless'd his fellow-citizens had been,
Though but in dreams, their Pompey to have seen!
Oh! that the gods, in pity, would allow
Such long-tried friends their destiny to know;
So each to each might their sad thoughts convey,
And make the most of their last mournful day.
But now, unconscious of the ruin nigh.
Within his native land he thinks to die:
While her fond hopes with confidence presume,
Nothing so terrible from fate can come,
As to be robb'd of her lov'd Pompey's tomb.
Had the sad city fate's decree foreknown,
What floods, fast failing, should her loss bemoan;
Then should the lusty youth, and fathers hoar,
With mingling tears, their chief renown'd deplore;
Maids, matrons, wives, and babes, a helpless train.
As once for godlike Brutus, should complain;
Their tresses should they tear, their bosoms beat,
And cry loud-wailing in the doleful street.
Nor shalt thou, Rome, thy gushing sorrows keep,
Though aw'd by Caesar, and forbid to weep;
Though while he tells thee of thy Pompey dead,
He shakes his threatening falchion o'er thy head.
Lamenting crowds the conqueror shall meet,
And with a peal of groans his triumph greet;
In sad procession, sighing shall they go,
And stain his laurels with the streams of woe.
Bat now the fainting stars at length gave way.
And hid their vanquish'd fires in beamy day;
When round the leader's tent the legions crowd,
And, urg'd by fate, demand the fight aloud.
Wretches! that long their little life to waste,
And hurry on those hours that fly too fast!
Too soon, for thousands, shall the day be done,
Whose eyes no more shall see the setting sun.
Tumultuous speech, the' impulsive rage confess'd
And Rome's bad genius rose in every breast.
With vile disgrace they blot their leader's name,
Pronounce ev'n Pompey fearful, slow, and tame,
And cry, ' He sinks beneath his father's fame.
Some charge him with ambition's guilty views.
And think 'tis power and empire he pursues
That, fearing peace, he practises delay,
And would, for ever, make the world obey.
While eastern kings of lingering wars complain,
And wish to view their native realms again.
Thus when the gods are pleas'd to plague mankind,
Our own rash hands are to the task assign'd;
By them ordain'd the tools of fate to be.
We blindly act the mischiefs they decree
We call the battle, we the sword prepare.
And Rome's destruction is the Roman pray'r.
The general voice, united, Tully takes,
And for the rest the sweet persuader speaks.
Tully, for happy eloquence renown'd,
With every Roman grace of language crown'd;
Beneath whose rule and government rever'd,
Fierce Catiline the peaceful axes fear'd:
But now, detain'd amidst an armed throng,
Where lost his arts, and useless was his tongue,
The orator had borne the camp too long.
He to the vulgar side his pleading draws,
And thus enforces much their feeble cause:
"For all that fortune for thy arms has done,
For all thy fame acquir'd, thy battles won;
This only boon her suppliant vows implore,
That thou wouldst deign to use her aid once more:
In this, O Pompey! kings and chiefs unite,
And, to chastise proud Caesar, ask the fight.
Shall he, one man against the world combin'd,
Protract destruction, and embroil mankind?
What will the vanquish'd nations murmuring say,
Where once thy conquests cut their winged way;
When they behold thy virtue lazy now,
And see thee move thus languishing and slow?
Where are those fires that warm'd thee to be great?
That stable soul, and confidence in fate?
Canst thou the gods ungratefully mistrust?
Or think the senate's sacred cause unjust?
Scarce are the' impatient ensigns yet withheld:
Why art thou, thus, to victory compell'd?
Dost thou Rome's chief, and in her cause, appear?
'Tis her's to choose the field, and she appoints it here.
Why is this ardour of the world withstood,
The injur'd world, that thirsts for Caesar's blood?
See! where the troops with indignation stand,
Each javelin trembling in an eager hand, e
And wait, unwillingly, the last command.
Resolve the senate then, and let them know.
Are they thy servants, or their servant thou?"
Sore sigh'd the listening chief, who well could read
Some dire delusion by the gods decreed;
He saw the fates malignantly inclin'd
To thwart his purpose, and perplex his mind.
"Since thus (he cried) it is by all decreed.
Since my impatient friends and country need
My hand to fight, and not my head to lead
Pompey no longer shall your fate delay.
But let pernicious fortune take her way,
And waste the world on one devoted day.
But oh! be witness thou my native Rome,
With what a sad foreboding heart I come;
To thy hard fate unwillingly I yield,
While thy rash sons compel me to the field.
How easily had Caesar been subdu'd,
And the bless'd victory been free from blood!
But the fond Romans cheap renown disdain;
They wish for deaths to purple o'er the plain,
And reeking gore their guilty swords to stain.
Driv'n by my fleets, behold, the flying foe
At once the empire of the deep forego;
Here by necessity they seem to stand.
Coop'd up within a corner of the land.
By famine to the last extremes compell'd,
They snatch green harvests from the' unripen'd field;
And wish we may this only grace afford,
To let them die like soldiers, by the sword.
"Tis true, it seems an earnest of success,
That thus our bolder youth for action press:
But let them try their inmost hearts with care,
And judge betwixt true valour, and rash fear;
Let them be sure this eagerness is right,
And certain fortitude demands the fight.
In war, in dangers, oft it has been known,
That fear has driv'n the headlong coward on
Give me the man, whose cooler soul can wait
With patience, for the proper hour of fate.
See what a prosperous face Our fortunes bear!
Why should we trust them to the chance of war?
Why must we risk the world's uncertain doom,
And rather choose to fight than overcome?
Thou goddess, Chance! who to my careful hand
Hast given this wearisome supreme command;
If I have, to the task of empire just,
Enlarg'd the bounds committed to my trust;
Be kind, and to thyself the rule resume,
And, in the fight, defend the cause of Rome t
To thy own crowns the wreath of conquest join;
Nor let the glory nor the crime be mine.
But see! thy hopes, unhappy Pompey! fail:
We fight; and Caesar's stronger vows prevail.
Oh, what a scene of guilt this day shall show!
What crowds shall fall, what nations be laid low
Red shall Enipeus run with Roman blood,
And to the margin swell his foamy flood.
Oh! if our cause my aid no longer need.
Oh! may my bosom be the first to bleed:
Me let the thrilling javelin foremost strike.
Since death and victory are now alike.
To-day, with ruin shall my name be join'd,
Or stand the common curse of all mankind;
By every woe the vanquished shall be known,
And every infamy the victor crown."
He spoke; and, yielding to the' impetuous crowd
The battle to his frantic bands allow'd.
So, when long vex'd by stormy Corns' blast,
The weary pilot quits the helm at last;
He leaves his vessel to the winds to guide,
And drive unsteady with the tumbling tide.
Loud through the camp the rising murmurs sound,
And one tumultuous hurry runs around;
Sudden their busy hearts began to beat,
And each pale visage wore the marks of fate.
Anxious they see the dreadful day is come,
That must decide the destiny of Rome.
This single vast concern employs the host,
And private fears are in the public lost.
Should earth be rent, should darkness quench the sun.
Should swelling seas above the mountains run,
Should universal nature's end draw near,
Who could have leisure for himself to fear?
With Such consent his safety each forgot.
And Rome and Pompey took up every thought.
And now the warriors all, with busy care,
Whet the dull sword, and point the blunted spear
With tougher nerves they string the bended bow,
And in full quivers steely shafts bestow:
The horseman sees his furniture made fit,
Sharpens the spur, and burnishes the bit;
Fixes the rein to check, or urge his speed,
And animates to fight the snorting steed.
Such once the busy gods' employments were,
If mortal men to gods we may compare,
When earth's bold sons began their impious war.
The Lemnian power,J, with many a stroke, restor'd
Bine Neptune's trident, and stern Mars's sword;
In terrible array, the blue-eyed maid
The horrors of her Gorgon-shield display'd;
Phoebus his once victorious shafts renew'd,
Disus'd, and rusty with the Python's blood;
While, with unwearied toil, the Cyclops strove
To forge new thunders for imperial Jove.
Nor wanted then dire omens, to declare
What curs'd events Thessalia's plains prepare.
Black storms oppos'd against the warriors lay.
And lightnings thwarted their forbidden way;
Full in their eyes the dazzling flashes broke,
And with amaze their troubled senses stroke;
Tall fiery columns in the skies were seen,
With watery Typhons l interwove between.
Glancing along the bands, swift meteors shoot,
And from the helm the plumy honours cut:
Sudden the flame dissolves the javelin's head,
And liquid runs the shining steely blade.
Strange to behold! their weapons disappear,
While sulphurous odour taints the smoking air.
The standard, as unwilling to be borne.
With pain from the tenacious earth is torn:
Anon, black swarms bang clustering on its height,
And press the bearer with unwonted weight,s.
Big drops of grief each sweating marble wears,
And Parian gods and heroes stand in tears.
No more the' auspicious victim tamely dies I?,
But, furious, from the hallow'd fane he flies;
Breaks off the rites with prodigies profane,
And bellowing seeks Emathia's fatal plain.
But who, O Caesar! who were then thy gods?
Whom didst thou summon from their dark abodes?
The Furies listen'd to thy grateful vows,
And dreadful to the day the powers of hell arose.
Did then the monsters. Fame records, appear?
Or were they only phantoms form'd by fear?
Some saw the moving mountains meet like foes,
And, rending earth, new gaping caves disclose.
Others beheld a sanguine torrent take
Its purple course through fair Boebeis lake;
Heard each returning night, portentous, yield
Loud shouts of battle on Pharsalia's field:
While others thought they saw the light decay,
And sudden shades oppress the fainting day;
Fancied wild horrors in each other's face,
And saw the ghosts of all their buried race;
Beheld them rise and glare with pale affright.
And stalk around 'em in the new-made night.
Whate'er the cause, the crowd, by Fate decreed,
To make their brothers, sons, and fathers bleed,
Consenting, to the prodigies agreed;
And while they thirst impatient for that blood.
Bless these nefarious omens all — as good.
But wherefore should we wonder, to behold
That death's approach by madness was foretold?
Wild are the wandering thoughts which last survive;
And these had not another day to live.
These shook for what they saw; while distant climes,
Unknowing, trembled for Emathia's crimes.
Where Tyrian Gades sees the setting sun,
And where Araxes' rapid waters run,
From the bright orient to the glowing west,
In every nation, every Roman breast
The terrors of that dreadful day confess'd.
Where Aponus first springs in smoky steam,
And full Timavus rolls hi nobler stream;
Upon a hill that day, if Fame be true,
A learned augur sat, the skies to view: —
'Tis come, the great event is come, (he cried)
Our impious chiefs their wicked war decide."
Whether the Seer observ'd Jove's forky flame,
And mark'd the firmament's discordant frame;
Or whether, in that gloom of sudden night,
The straggling sun declar'd the dreadful fight:
From the first birth of morning in the skies,
Sure never day like this was known to rise;
In the blue vault, as in a volume spread,
Plain might the Latian destiny be read.
Oh Rome! oh people, by the gods assign'd
To be the worthy masters of mankind!
On thee the Heavens with all their signals wait,
And suffering nature labours with thy fate.
When thy great names to latest times convey'd,
By fame, or by my verse, immortal made,
In free-born nations justly shall prevail,
And rouse their passions with this noblest tale;
How shall they fear for thy approaching doom,
As if each past event were yet to come!
How shall their bosoms swell with vast concern,
And long the doubtful chance of war to learn!
Ev'n then the favouring world with thee shall join,
And every honest heart to Pompey's cause incline.
Descending now, the bands in just array,
From burnish'd arms reflect the beamy day;
In an ill hour they spread the fatal field,
And with portentous blaze the neighbouring mountains gild.
On the left wing, bold Lentulus, their head,
The first and fourth selected legions led
Luckless Domitius, vainly brave in war,
Drew forth the right with unauspicious care.
In the mid battle daring Scipio fought,
With eight full legions from Cilicia brought.
Submissive here to Pompey's high command,
The warrior undistinguish'd took his stand.
Reserv'd to be the chief, on Libya's burning sand.
Near the low marshes and Enipeus' flood,
The Pontic horse, and Cappadocian stood.
While kings and tetrarchs proud, a purple train,
Liegemen and vassals to the Latian reign,
Possess'd the rising grounds and drier plain.
Here troops of black Numidians scour the field,
And bold Iberians narrow bucklers wield;
Her.e twang the Syrian and the Cretan bow,
And the fierce Gauls provoke their well-known foe H
Go, Pompey! lead to death the' unnumber'd host,
Let the whole human race at once be lost,
Let nations upon nations heap the plain,
And tyranny want subjects for its reign.
Caesar, as chance ordain'd, that, morn decreed
The spoiling bands of foragers to lead;
When with a sudden, but a glad surprise,
The foe, descending, strook his wondering eyes.
Eager, and burning for unbounded sway,
Long had be borne the tedious war's delay;
Long had he struggled with protracting time,
That sav'd his country, and defer'd his crime:
At length, he sees the wish'd-for day is come,
To end the strife for liberty and Rome;
Fate's dark mysterious threatnings to explain,
And ease the' impatience of ambition's pain.
But when he saw the vast event so nigh,
Unusual horror damp'd his impious joy;
For one cold moment sunk his heart suppress'd,
And doubt hung heavy on his anxious breast.
Though his past fortunes promise now success,
Yet Pompey, from his own, expects no less.
His changing thoughts revolve with various cheer,
While these forbid to hope, and those to fear.
At length his wonted confidence returns,
With his first fires his daring bosom burns;
As if secure of victory he stands,
And, fearless, thus bespeaks the listening bands:
Ye warriors! who have made your Caesar great,
On whom the world, on whom my fortunes wait;
To-day the gods whate'er you wish, afford,
And Fate attends on the deciding sword.
By your firm aid alone your leader stands,
And trusts his all to your long-faithful hands.
This day shall make our promis'd glories good,
The hopes of Rubicon's distinguish'd flood.
For this bless'd morn we trusted long to fate,
Defer'd our fame, and bade the triumph wait.
This day, my gallant friends, this happy day,
Shall the long labours of your arms repay;
Shall give you back to every joy of life,
To the lov'd offspring, and the tender wife;
Shall find my veteran out a safe retreat,
And lodge his age within a peaceful seat.
The long dispute of guilt shall now be clear'd,
And conquest shall the juster cause reward.
Have you, for me, with sword and fire laid waste
Your country's bleeding bosom, as yon pass'd?
Let the same swords as boldly strike to-day,
And the last wounds shall wipe the first away.
Whatever faction's partial notions are,
No hand is wholly innocent in war.
Yours is the cause to which my vows are join'd,
I seek to make you free, and masters of mankind.
I have no hopes, no wishes of my own,
But well could hide me in a private gown:
At my expense of Fame exalt your pow'rs,
Let me be nothing, so the world be yours.
"Nor think the task too bloody shall be found,
With easy glory shall our arms be crown'd.
Yon host come learn'd in academic rules,
A band of disputants from Grecian schools:
To these, luxurious eastern crowds are join'd,
Of many a tongue and many a differing kind:
Their own first shouts shall fill each soul with fears
And their own trumpets shock their tender ears.
Unjustly this, a civil war, we call,
Where none but foes of Rome, barbarians, fall.
On then, my friends! and end it at a blow;
Lay these soft lazy worthless nations low.
Show Pompey, that subdued 'em, with what ease
Your valour gains such victories as these:
Show him, if justice still the palm confers,
One triumph was too much for all his wars.
From distant Tigris shall Armenians come,
To judge between the citizens of Home?
Will fierce Barbarian aliens waste their blood,
To make the cause of Latian Pompey good?
Believe me, no. To them we're all the same,
They hate alike the whole Ausonian name;
But most those haughty masters whom they know,
Who taught their servile vanquish'd necks to bow.
Meanwhile, as round my joyful eyes are roll'd,
None but my tried companions I behold:
For years in Gaul we made our hard abode.
And many a march in partnership have trod.
Is there a soldier to your chief unknown?
A sword, to whom I trust not, like my own?
Could I not mark each javelin in the sky,
And say from whom the fatal weapons fly?
Ev'n now l view auspicious furies rise,
And rage redoubled flashes in your eyes.
With joy those omens of success I read,
And see the certain victory decreed;
I see the purple deluge float the plain,
Huge piles of carnage, nations of the slain;
Dead chiefs, with mangled monarchs, I survey,.
And the pale Senate crowns the glorious day.
But, oh I forgive my tedious lavish tongue,
Your eager virtue I withhold too long:
My soul exults with hopes too fierce to bear,
I feel good fortune and the gods draw near.
AH we can ask with full consent they yield,
And nothing bars us but this narrow field.
The battle o'er, what boon c?n I deny?
The treasures of the world before you lie!
Oh, Thessaly! what stars, what powers divine.
To thy distinguish'd land this great event assign
Between extremes to-day our fortune lies,
The vilest punishment, and noblest prize.
Consider well the captive's lost estate,
Chains, racks, and crosses, for the vanquish'd wait.
My limbs are each allotted to its place.
And my pale head the Rostrum's height shall grace;
But that's a thought unworthy Caesar's care;
More for my friends than for myself I fear.
On my good sword securely I rely,
And, if I conquer not, am sure to die,
Bat oh! for you, my anxious soul foresees,
Pompey shall copy Sylla's curs'd decrees;
The Martian field shall blush with gore again,
And massacres once more the peaceful Septa stain.
Hear, oh! ye gods, who in Rome's strugglings share,
Who leave your Heaven, to make our earth your care;
Hear, and let him, the happy victor, live,
Who shall with mercy use the power you give;
Whose rage for slaughter with the war shall cease.
And spare his vanquish'd enemies in peace.
Nor is Dyrrhachium's fatal field forgot.
Nor what was then our brave companions' lot;
When, by advantage of the straiter ground.
Successful Pompey compass'd us around;
When quite disarm'd your useless valour stood,
Till his fell sword was satiated with blood.
But gentler hands, but nobler hearts you bear.
And, oh! remember 'tis your leader's pray'r,
Whatever Roman flies before you, spare.
But while oppos'd, and menacing they stand,
Let no regard withhold the lifted hand:
Let friendship, kindred, all remorse give place,
And mangling wounds deform the reverend face;
Still let resistance be repaid with blood.
And hostile force, by hostile force subdued;
Stranger, or friend, whatever be the name,
Your merit still, to Caesar, is the same.
Fill then the trenches, break the ramparts round.
And let our works lie level with the ground;
So shall no obstacles our march delay,
Nor stop, one moment, our victorious way:
Nor spare your camp; this night we mean to lie
In that, from whence the vanquish'd foe shall fly."
Scarce had he spoke, when sudden at the word
They seize the lance, and draw the shining sword:
At once the turfy fences all lie waste,
And through the breach the crowding legions haste;
Regardless all of order and array
They stand, and trust to fate alone the day.
Each had propos'd an empire to be won,
Had each once known a Pompey for his son;
Had Caesar's soul inform'd each private breast
A fiercer fury could not be express'd.
With sad presages, Pompey now beheld
Hh foes advancing o'er the neighbouring field:
He saw the gods had fix'd the day of fate,
And felt his heart hang heavy with new weight.
Dire is the omen, when the valiant fear;
Which yet he strove to hide with well-dissembled cheer.
High on his warrior-steed, the chief o'erran
The wide array, and thus at length began:
"The time to ease your groaning country's pain,
Which long your eager valour sought in vain!;
The great deciding hour at length is come,
To end the strivings of distracted Rome;
For this one last effort exert your pow'r
Strike home today, and all your toils are o'er.
If the dear pledges of connubial love,
Your household gods, and Rome, your souls can move;
Hither by fate they seem together brought,
And for that prize, to-day, the battle shall be fought.
Let none the favouring gods assistance fear;
They always make the juster cause their care.
The flying dart to Caesar shall they guide.
And point the sword at his devoted side:
Our injur'd laws shall be on him made Rood,
And liberty establish'd in his blood.
Could Heav'n, in violence of wrath, ordain
The world to groan beneath a tyrant's reign;
It had not spar'd your Pompey's head so long,
Nor lengthen'd out my age — to see the wrong.
All we can wish for, to secure success,
With large advantage here our arms possess:
See, in the ranks of every common band,
Where Rome's illustrious names for soldiers stand.
Could the great dead revisit life again,
For us, once more, the Decii would be slain;
The Curii and Camilli might we boast.
Proud to be mingled in this noblest host
If men, if multitudes, can make us strong;
Behold, what tribes unnumber'd march along!
Where'er the zodiac turns its radiant round,
Wherever earth, or people, can be found;
To us the nations issue forth in swarms,
And in Rome's cause all human nature arms.
What then remains, but that our wings inclose,
Within their ample folds, our shrinking foes?
Thousands and thousands, useless, may we spare;
Yon handful will not half employ our war.
Think from the summit of the Roman wall,
You hear our loud-lamenting matrons call;
Think with what tears, what lifted hands they sue,
And place their last, their only hopes in you.
Imagine, kneeling age before you spread,
Each hoary, reverend, majestic head;
Imagine Rome herself your aid implor'd,
To save her from a proud imperious lord.
Think how the present age, how that to come,
What multitudes from you expect their doom:
On your success dependent all rely;
These to be born in freedom, those to die.
Think (if there be a thought can move you more,
A pledge more dear than those I nam'd before)
Think you behold (were such a posture meet)
Ev'n me, your Pompey, prostrate at your feet:
Myself, my wife, my sons, a suppliant band,
From you our lives and liberties demand;
Or conquer you, or I to exile borne,
My last dishonourable years shall mourn,
Your long reproach, and my proud father's scorn.
From bonds, from infamy, your general save,
Nor let this hoary head descend to earth a slave."
Thus while he spoke, the faithful legions round
With indignation caught the mournful sound;
Falsely, they think, his fears those dangers view,
But vow to die, ere Caesar proves them true.
What differing thoughts the various hosts incite,
And urge their deadly ardour for the fight!
Those bold ambition kindles into rage,
And these their fears for liberty engage.
How shall this day the peopled earth deface,
Prevent mankind, and rob the growing race!
Though all the years to come should roll in peace,
And future ages bring their whole increase;
Though nature all her genial powers employ,
All shall not yield what these curs'd hands destroy.
Soon shall the greatness of the Roman name.
To unbelieving ears, be told by fame;
Low shall the mighty Latian towers be laid,
And ruins crown our Alban mountain's head;
While yearly magistrates, in turns compell'd
To lodge by night upon the' uncover'd field,
Shall at old doting Numa's laws repine,
Who could to such bleak wilds his Latine rites assign
Ev'n now behold! where waste Hesperia lies,
Where empty cities shock our mournful eyes;
Untouch'd by time, our infamy they stand,
The marks of civil discord's murderous hand.
How is the stock of human kind brought low!
Walls want inhabitants, and hands the plough.
Our fathers' fertile fields by slaves are till'd,
And Rome with dregs of foreign lands is fill'd.
Such were the heaps, the millions of the slain.
As 'twere the purpose of Emathia's plain,
That none for future mischiefs should remain.
Well may our annals less misfortunes yield,
Mark Allia's flood, and Cannae's fatal field;
But let Pharsalia's day be still forgot,
Be ras'd at once from every Roman thought.
'Twas there that fortune, in her pride, display'd
The greatness her own mighty hands had made;
Forth in array the powers of Rome she drew,
And set her subject nations all to view;
As if she meant to show the haughty queen,
Ev'n by her ruins, what her height had been.
Oh, countless loss! that well might have supplied
The desolation of all deaths beside.
Though famine with blue pestilence conspire.
And dreadful earthquakes with destroying fire;
And built again the ruins of mankind.
Immortal gods! with what resistless force
Our growing empire ran its rapid course!
Still every year with new success was crown'd,
And conquering chiefs enlarg'd the Latian bound:
Till Rome stood mistress of the world confess'd,
From the gray orient to the ruddy west;
From pole to pole her wide dominions run,
Where'er the stars or brighter Phoebus shone;
As Heaven and earth were made for her alone.
But now, behold how fortune tears away
The gift of ages in one fatal day!
One day shakes off the vanquish'd Indians chain,
And turns the wandering Dirae loose again:
No longer shall the victor-consul now
Trace our Sarmatian cities with the plough:
Exulting Parthia shall her slaughters boast,
Nor feel the vengeance due to Crassus' ghost.
While liberty, long wearied by our crimes,
Forsakes us for some better barbarous climes;
Beyond the Rhine and Tanais she flies,
To snowy mountains, and to frozen skies;
While Rome, who long pursued that chiefest good.
O'er fields of slaughter, and through seas of blood,
In slavery her abject state shall mourn,
Nor dare to hope the goddess will return.
Why were we ever free? Oh, why has heav'n
A short-liv'd transitory blessing giv'n?
Of thee first, Brutus, justly we complain:
Why didst thou break thy groaning country's chain,
And end the proud lascivious tyrant's reign?
W hy did thy patriot-hand on Rome bestow
Laws, and her consuls' righteous rule to know?
In servitude more happy had we been,
Since Romulus first wall'd his refuge in,
Ev'n since the twice six vultures bade him build,
To this curs'd period of Pharsalia's field.
Medes and Arabians, of the slavish East,
Beneath eternal bondage may be bless'd;
While, of a differing mould and nature, we,
From sire to son, accustom'd to be free,
Feel indignation rising in our blood,
And blush to wear the chains that make them proud,
Gan there be gods who rule yon azure sky?
Can they behold Emathia from on high,
And yet forbear to bid their lightnings fly?
Is it the business of a thundering Jove,
To rive the rocks, and blast the guiltless grove?
While Cassius holds the balance in his stead,
And wreaks due vengeance, on the tyrant's head.
The son ran back from Atreus' monstrous feast,
And his fair beams in murky clouds suppress'd:
Why shines he now? why lends his golden light
To these worse parricides, this more accursed sight?
But chance guides all: the gods their task forego,
And providence no longer reigns below.
Yet are they just, and some revenge afford,
While their own heavens are humbled by the sword;
And the proud victors, like themselves, ador'd:
With rays adorn'd, with thunders arm'd they stand.
And incense, prayers, and sacrifice demand;
While trembling, slavish, superstitious Rome,
Swears by a mortal wretch, that moulders in a tomb.
Now either host the middle plain had pass'd.
And front to front in threatening ranks were plac'd;
Then every well-known feature stood to view,
Brothers their brothers, sons their fathers knew.
Then first they feel the curse of civil hate,
Mark where their mischiefs are assign'd by fate,
And see from whom themselves destruction wait.
Stupid awhile, and at a gaze they stood,
While creeping horror froze the lazy blood:
Some small remains of piety withstand,
And stop the javelin in the lifted hand;
Remorse for one short moment stept between,
And motionless, as statues, all were seen.
And oh! what savage fury could engage,
While -lingering Caesar yet suspends his rage?
For him, ye ods! for Crastinus, whose spear,
With impious eagerness, began the war,
Some more than common punishment prepare;
Beyond the grave long lasting plagues ordain,
Surviving sense, and never-ceasing pain.
Straight, at the fatal signal, all around
A thousand fifes, a thousand clarions sound;
Beyond where clouds, or glancing lightnings fly,
The piercing clangors strike the vaulted sky.
The joining battles shout, and the loud peal
Bounds from the hill, and thunders down the vale;
Old Pelion's caves the doubling roar return,
And Oeta's rocks and groaning Pindus mourn;
From pole to pole the tumult spreads afar,
And the world trembles at the distant war.
Now flit the thrilling darts through liquid air,
And various vows from various masters bear:
Some seek the noblest Roman heart to wound,
And some to err upon the guiltless ground;
While chance decrees the blood that shall be spilt,
And blindly scatters innocence and guilt.
But random shafts too scanty death afford,
A civil war is business for the sword:
Where face to face the parricides may meet,
Know whom they kill, and make the crime complete.
Firm in the front, with joining bucklers clos'd,
Stood the Pompeian infantry dispos'd:
So crowded was the space, it scarce affords
The power to toss their piles, or yield their swords.
Forward, thus thick embattled though they stand.
With headlong wrath rush furious Caesar's band;
In vain the lifted shield their rage retards,
Or plaited mail devoted bosoms guards;
Through shields, through mail, the wounding weapons go,
And to the heart drive home each deadly blow.
Oh, rage ill match'd! Oh, much unequal war,
Which those wage proudly, and these tamely bear!
These, by cold stupid piety disarm'd;
Those, by hot blood and smoking slaughter warm'd.
Nor in suspense uncertain fortune hung,
But yields, o'ermaster'd by a power too strong,
And borne by fate's impetuous stream along,
From Pompey's ample wings, at length, the horse
Wide o'er the plain extending take their course;
Wheeling around the hostile line they wind,
While, lightly arm'd, the shot succeed behind.
In various ways the various bands engage,
And hurl upon the foe the missile rage;
There fiery darts and rocky fragments fly,
And heating bullets whistle through the sky:
Of feather'd shafts, a cloud thick shading goes,
From Arab, Mede, and Ituraean bows:
But driven by random aim they seldom wound;
At first they hide the heaven, then strew the ground
While Roman hands unerring mischief send,
And certain deaths on every pile attend.
But Caesar, timely careful, to support
His wavering front against the first effort,
Had plac'd his bodies of reserve behind,
And the strong rear with chosen cohorts lin'd.
There, as the careless foe the fight pursue,
A sudden band and stable, forth he drew;
When soon, oh shame! the loose barbarians yield
Scattering their broken squadrons o'er the field.
And show, too late, that slaves attempt in vain
The sacred cause of freedom to maintain.
The fiery steeds, impatient of a wound,
Hurl their neglected riders to the ground;
Or on their friends with rage ungovern'd turn.
And trampling o'er the helpless foot are borne.
Hence foul confusion and dismay succeed,
The victors murder, and the vanquish'd bleed:
Their weary hands the tir'd destroyers ply,
Scarce can these kill so fast as those can die.
Oh, that Emathia's ruthless guilty plain
Had been contented with this only stain;
With these rude bones had strewn her verdure o'er,
And dy'd her springs with none but Asian gore!
But if so keen her thirst for Roman blood,
Let none but Romans make the slaughter good;
Let not a Mede nor Cappadocian fall,
No bold Iberian, nor rebellious Gaul:
Let these alone survive for times to come,
And be the future citizens of Rome.
But fear, on all alike, her powers employ'd.
Did Caesar's business, and like fate destroy'd.
Prevailing still the victors held their course,
Till Pompey's main reserve oppos'd their force;
There, in his strength, the chief unshaken stood,
Repell'd the foe, and made the combat good,
There in suspense the' uncertain battle hung,
And Caesar's favouring goddess doubted long;
There no proud monarchs led their vassals on,
Nor eastern bands in gorgeous purple shone;
There the last force of laws and freedom lay,
And Roman patriots straggled for the days
What parricides the guilty scene affords!
Sires, sons, and brothers, rush on mutual swords
There every sacred bond of nature bleeds;
There met the war's worst rage, and Caesar's blackest deeds.
But oh! my muse, the mournful theme forbear.
And stay thy lamentable numbers here;
Let not my verse to future times convey,-
What Rome committed on this dreadful day;
In shades and silence hide her crimes from fame,
And spare thy miserable country's shame.
But Caesar's rage shall with oblivion strive,
And for eternal infamy survive.
From rank to rank, unwearied, still he flies,
And with new fires their fainting wrath supplies:
His greedy eyes each sign of guilt explore,
And mark whose sword is deepest dy'd in gore;
Observe where pity and remorse prevail,
What arm strikes faintly, and what cheek turns pale.
Or, while he rides the slaughter'd heaps around,
And views some foe expiring on the ground,
His cruel hands the gushing blood restrain.
And strive to keep the parting soul in pain:
As when Bellona drives the world to war,
Or Mars comes thundering in his Thracian car;
Rage horrible darts from his Gorgon shield,
And gloomy terror broods upon the field;
Hate, fell and fierce, the dreadful gods impart.
And urge the vengeful warrior's heaving heart:
The many shout, arms clash, the wounded cry,
And one promiscuous peal groans upward to the sky.
Nor furious Caesar, on Emathia's plains,
Less terribly the mortal strife sustains;
Each hand unarm'd he fills with means of death,
And cooling wrath rekindles at his breath:
Now with his voice, his gesture now, he strives,
Now with his lance the lagging soldier drives:
The weak he strengthens, and confirms the strong,
And hurries war's impetuous stream along.
"Strike home, (he cries) and let your swords erase
Each well-known feature of the kindred face:
Nor waste your fury on the vulgar band;
See! where the hoary doting senate stand:
There laws and right at once you may confound,
And liberty shall bleed at every wound."
The curs'd destroyer spoke; and, at the word,
The purple nobles sunk beneath the sword:
The dying patriots groan upon the ground,
Illustrious names, for love of laws renown'd.
The great Metelli and Torquatus bleed,!
Chiefs worthy (if the. state had so decreed,
And Pompey were not there) mankind to lead.
Say thou thy sinking country's only prop.
Glory of Rome, and liberty's last hope;
What helm, oh Brutus i could, amidst the crowd,
Thy sacred undistinguish'd visage shroud?
Where fought thy arm that day? But ah, forbear
Nor rush unwary on the pointed spear;
Seek not to hasten on untimely fate,
But patient for thy own Emathia wait:
Nor hunt fierce Caesar on this bloody plain.
To-day thy steel pursues his life in vain.
Somewhat is wanting to the tyrant yet,
To make the measure of his crimes complete;
As yet he has not every law defied,
Nor reach'd the utmost heights of daring pride.
Erelong, thou shalt behold him Rome's proud lord
And ripen'd by ambition for thy sword:
Then, thy griev'd country vengeance shall demand
And ask the victim at thy righteous hand.
Among huge heaps of the Patrician slain,
And Latian chiefs, who strew'd that purple plain.
Recording story has distinguish'd well,
How brave, unfortunate Domitius fell.
In every loss of Pompey still he shar'd,
And died in liberty, the best reward
Though vanquish'd oft by Caesar, ne'er enslav'd,
Ev'n to the last the tyrant's power he brav'd:
Mark'd o'er with many a glorious streaming wound,
In pleasure sunk the warrior to the ground
No longer forc'd on vilest terms to live,
For chance to doom, and Caesar to forgive.
Him, as he pass'd insulting o'er the field,
Roll'd in his blood, the victor proud beheld:
And can (he cried) the fierce Domitius fall,
Forsake his Pompey, and expecting Gaul?
Must the war lose that still successful sword.
And my neglected province want a lord?"
He spoke j when, lifting slow his closing eyes,
Fearless the dying Roman thus replies:
"Since wickedness stands unrewarded yet,
Nor Caesar's arms their wish'd success have met
Free and rejoicing to the shades I go,
And leave my chief still equal to his foe:
And if my hopes divine thy doom aright,
Yet shalt thou bow thy vanquish'd head ere nights
Dire punishments the righteous gods decree,
For injur'd Rome, for Pompey, and for roe;
In hell's dark realms thy tortures I shall know,
And hear thy ghost lamenting loud below."
He said; and soon the leaden sleep prevail'd,
And everlasting night his eyelids seal'd.
But oh! what grief the ruin can deplore!
What verse can run the various slaughter O'er!
For lesser woes our sorrows may we keep;
No tears suffice a dying world to weep.
In differing groups ten thousand deaths arise,
And horrors manifold the soul surprise.
Here the whole man is open'd at a wound,
And gushing bowels pour upon the ground;
Another, through the gaping jaws is gor'd,
And in his utmost throat receives the sword:
At once, a single blow a third extends
The fourth, a living trunk dismember'd stands.
Some in their breasts erect the javelin bear,
Some cling to earth with the transfixing spear.
Here, like a fountain, springs a purple flood,
Spouts on the foe, and stains his arms with blood.
There horrid brethren on their brethren prey;
One starts, and hurls a well-known head away.
While some detested son, with impious ire.
Lops by the shoulders close his hoary sire:
Ev'n his rude fellows damn the cursed deed,
And bastard-born the murderer aread.
No private house its loss lamented then,
But count the slain by nations, not by men.
Here Grecian streams and Asiatic run,
And Roman torrents drive the deluge on.
More than the world at once was given away,
And late posterity was lost that day:
A race of future slaves receiv'd their doom,
And children yet unborn were overcome.
How shall our miserable sons complain,
That they are born beneath a tyrant's reign?
"Did our husbands (with justice shall they say)
The sacred cause of liberty betray?
Why have our fathers given us up a prey?
Their age, to ours, the curse of bondage leaves;
Themselves were cowards, and begot us slaves."
'Tis just: and fortune, that impos'd a lord,
One struggle for their freedom might afford;
Might leave their hands their proper cause to fight.
And let them keep, or lose themselves, their right
But Pompey now the fate of Rome descried,
And saw the changing gods forsake her side:
Hard to believe, though from a rising ground
He view'd the universal ruin round,
In crimson streams he saw destruction run,
And in the fall of thousands felt his own.
Nor wish'd he, like most wretches in despair,
The world one common misery might share:
But with a generous, great, exalted mind,
Besought the gods to pity poor mankind,
To let him die, and leave the rest behind:
This hope came smiling to his anxious breast.
For this his earnest vows were thus address'd:
Spare man, ye gods! oh, let the nations live!
Let me be wretched, but let Rome survive.
Or if this head suffices not alone,
My wife, my sons, your anger shall atone:
If blood the yet unsated war demand,
Behold my pledges left in fortune's hand!
Ye cruel powers, who urge me with your hate.
At length behold me crush'd beneath the weight:
Give then your long-pursuing vengeance o'er,
And spare the world, since I can lose no more."
So saying, the tumultuous field he cross'd,
And warn'd from battle his despairing host;
Gladly the pains of death be had explor'd.
And fall'n undaunted on his pointed sword
Had be not fear'd the' example might succeed,
And faithful nations by his side would bleed.
Or did his swelling soul disdain to die
While his insulting father stood so nigh?
Fly where be will, the gods shall still pursue,
Nor his pale head shall 'scape the victor's view.
Or else, perhaps, and fate the thought approv'd.
For her dear sake he fled whom best he lov'd;
Malicious fortune to his wish agreed.
And gave him in Cornelia's sight to bleed.
Borne by his winged steed at length away,
He quits the purple plain, and yields the day.
Fearless of danger, still secure and great,
His daring soul supports his lost estate;
Nor groans his breast, nor swell his eyes with tears,
But still the same majestic form he wears.
An awful grief sat decent in his face.
Such as became his loss, and Home's disgrace:
His mind, unbroken, keeps her constant flame,
In greatness and misfortune still the same;
While Fortune, who his triumphs once beheld,
Now, disentangled from unwieldy pow'r,
O Pompey! run thy former honours o'er;
At leisure now review the glorious scene,
And call to mind how mighty thou hast been!
From anxious toils of empire turn thy care,
And from thy thoughts exclude the murderous war;
Let the just gods bear witness on thy side,
Thy cause no more shall by the sword be tried.
Whether sad Afric shall her loss bemoan,
Or Munda's plains beneath their burden groan,
The guilty bloodshed shall be all their own.
No more the much-lov'd Pompey's name shall charm
The peaceful world, with one consent, to arm;
Nor for thy sake, nor aw'd by thy command,
But for themselves, the fighting senate stand:
The war but one distinction shall afford,
And liberty, or Caesar, be the word.
Nor, oh! do thou thy vanquish'd lot deplore,
But fly with pleasure from those seas of gore:
Look back upon the horror, guiltless thou,
And pity Caesar, for whose sake they flow.
With what a heart, what triumph shall he come,
A victor, red with Roman blood, to Rome?
Though misery thy banishment attends,
Though thou shall die by thy false Pharian friends;
Yet trust securely to the choice of heav'n,
And know thy loss was for a blessing giv'n:
Though flight may seem the warrior's shame and curse;
To conquer, in a cause like this, is worse.
And oh! let every mark of grief be spar'd,
May he tear fall, no groan, no sigh be heard;
Still let mankind their Pompey's fate adore,
And reverence thy fall, ev'n as thy height of pow'r.
Meanwhile survey the' attending world around,
Cities by thee possess'd e and monarchs crown'd:
On Afric or on Asia cast thy eye,
And mark the land where thou shall choose to die.
Larissa so first the constant chief beheld,
Still great, though flying from the fatal field:
With loud acclaim her crowds his coming greet,
And, sighing, pour their presents at his feet.
She crowns her altars, and proclaims a feast:
Would put on joy to cheer her noble guest;
But weeps, and begs to share his woes at least.
So was he lov'd ev'n in his lost estate,
Such faith, such friendship on his ruins wait;
With ease Pharsalia's loss might be supplied.
While eager nations hasten to his side:
As if misfortune meant to bless him more
Than all his long prosperity before.
"In vain (he cries) you bring the vanquish'd aid
Henceforth, to Caesar be your homage paid;
Caesar, who triumphs o'er yon heaps of dead."
With that, his courser urging on to flight.
He vanish'd from the mournful city's sight.
With cries, and loud laments, they fill the air,
And curse the cruel gods, in fierceness of despair.
Now in huge lakes Hesperian crimson stood,
And Caesar's self grew satiated with blood.
The great Patricians fall'n, his pity spar'd
The worthless, unresisting, vulgar herd.
Then, while his glowing fortune yet was warm,
And scattering terror spread the wild alarm,
Straight to the hostile camp his way he bent,
Careful to seize the hasty flyer's tent,
The leisure of a night, and thinking to prevent.
Nor reck'd he much the weary soldiers' toil,
But led them prone, and greedy to the spoil,
"Behold, (he cries) our victory complete,
The glorious recompense attends ye yet:
Much have you done, to-day, for Caesar's sake;
'Tis mine to show the prey, 'tis yours to take.
'Tis yours, whate'er the vanquish'd foe has left;
'Tis what your valour gain'd, and not my gift
Treasures immense yon wealthy tents enfold.
The gems of Asia, and Hesperian gold:
For you the once great Pompey's store attends,
With regal spoils of his barbarian friends:
Haste then, prevent the foe, and seize that good,
For which you paid so well with Roman blood."
He said; and with the rage of rapine stung,
The multitude tumultuous rush along.
On swords and spears, on sires and sons they tread,
And all remorseless spurn the hoary dead.
What trench can intercept, what fort withstand
The brutal soldier's rude rapacious hand;
When eager to his crime's reward he flies,
And, bath'd in blood, demands the horrid prize?
There, wealth collected from the world around,
The destin'd recompense of war, they found.
But oh! not golden Arimaspus store.
Nor all the Tagus, or rich Iber pour,
Can fill the greedy victor's griping hands;
Rome, and the capitol, their pride demands:
All other spoils they scorn, as worthless prey,
And count their wicked labours rob'd of pay.
Here, in Patrician tents, plebeians rest,
And regal couches are by ruffians press'd:
There, impious parricides the bed invade,
And sleep where late their slaughter'd sires were laid.
Meanwhile the battle stands in dreams renew'd.
And Stygian horrors o'er their slumbers brood.
Astonishment and dread their souls infest.
And guilt sits painful on each heaving breast.
Arms, blood, and death, work in the labouring brain;
They sigh, they start, they strive, and fight it o'er again.
Ascending fiends infect the air around,
And hell breathes baleful through the groaning ground:
Hence dire affright distracts the warriors' souls,
Vengeance divine their daring hearts controls,
Snakes hiss, and livid flame tormenting rolls.
Each, as his hands in guilt have been imbrued,
By some pale spectre flies all night pursued.
In various forms the ghosts unnumber'd groan,
The brother, friend, the father, and the son:
To every wretch his proper phantom fell,
While Caesar sleeps the general care of hell.
Such were his pangs as mad Orestes felt,
Ere yet the Scythian altar purg'd his guilt.
Such horrors Pentheus, such Agave knew;
He when his rage first came, and she when hers withdrew.
Present and future swords his bosom bears,
And feels the blow that Brutus now defers.
Vengeance, in all her pomp of pain, attends;
To wheels she binds him, and with vultures rends,
With racks of conscience, and with whips of fiends.
But soon the visionary horrors pass,
And his first rage with day resumes its place:
Again his eyes rejoice, to view the slain,
And run unwearied o'er the dreadful plain.
He bids his train prepare his impious board,
And feasts amidst the heaps of death abhor'd.
There each pale face at leisure he may know.
And still behold the purple current flow.
He views the woful wide horizon round,
Then joys that earth is nowhere to be found,
And owns those gods he serves his utmost wish have crown'd;
Still greedy to possess the curs'd delight,
To glut his soul, and gratify his sight,
The last funereal honours he denies,
And poisons with the stench Emathia's skies.
Not thus the sworn inveterate foe of Rome
Refus'd the vanquish'd consul's bones a tomb;
His piety the Country round beheld,
And bright with fires shone Cannae's fatal field.
But Caesar's rage from fiercer motives rose;
These were his countrymen, his worst of foes.
But oh! relent, forget thy hatred past,
And give the wandering shades to rest at last.
Nor seek we single honours for the dead,
At once let nations on the pile be laid:
To feed the flame, let heapy forests rise,
Far be it seen to fret the ruddy skies,
And grieve despairing Pompey where he flies,
Know too, proud conqueror! thy wrath in vain
Strews with unburied carcases the plain.
What is it to thy malice, if they burn,
Rot in the field, or moulder in the urn?
'The forms of matter all, dissolving, die,
And lost in nature's bleeding bosom lie.
Though now thy cruelty denies a grave,
These and the world one common lot shall have;
One last appointed flame, by fate's decree,
Shall waste yon azure heavens, this earth, and sea
Shall knead the dead up in one mingled mass,
Where stars and they shall undistinguish'd pass.
And though thou scorn their fellowship, yet know,
High as thy own can soar, these souls shall go;
Or find, perhaps, a better place below.
Death is beyond thy goddess Fortune's pow'r,
And parent earth receives whate'er she bore.
Nor will we mourn those Romans' fate, who lie
Beneath the glorious covering of the sky;
That starry arch for ever round them turns,
A nobler shelter far than tombs or urns.
But wherefore parts the loathing victor hence?
Does slaughter strike too strongly on thy sense?
Yet stay, yet breathe the thick infections steam.
Yet quail with joy the blood-polluted stream.
But see, they fly! the daring warriors yield!
And the dead heaps drive Caesar from the field!
Now to the prey, gaunt wolves, a howling train,
J eed hungry from the far Bistonian plain;
From Pholoe the tawny lion comes,
And growling bears forsake their darksome homes:
With these, lean dogs in herds obscene repair,
And every kind that snuffs the tainted air.
For food, the cranes their wonted flight delay,
That erst to warmer Nile had wing'd their way:
With them the feather'd race convene from far,
Who gather to the prey, and wait on war.
Ne'er were such flocks of vultures seen to fly,
And hide with spreading plumes the crowded sky:
Gorging on limbs in every tree they sat,
And dropt raw morsels down, and gory fat:
Oft their tir'd talons, loosening as they fled,
Rain'd horrid offals on the victor's head.
But while the slain supplied too full a feast,
The plenty bred satiety at last;
The ravenous feeders riot at their ease,
And single out what dainties best may please.
Part borne away, the rest neglected lie,
For noonday suns and parching winds to dry;
Till length of time shall wear them quite away.
And mix them with Emathia's common clay.
Oh, fatal Thessaly! oh, land abhor'd!
How have thy fields the hate of heaven incur'd;
That thus the gods to thee destruction doom,
And load thee with the curse of falling Rome!
Still to new crimes, new horrors dost thou haste,
When yet thy former mischiefs scarce were past.
What rolling years, what ages can repay,
The multitudes thy wars have swept away!
Though tombs and urns their numerous store should spread,
And long antiquity yield all her dead;
Thy guilty plains more slaughter'd Romans hold.
Than all those tombs and all those urns infold.
Hence bloody spots shall stain thy grassy green.
And crimson drops on bladed corn be seen:
Each ploughshare some dead patriot shall molest,
Disturb his bones, and rob his ghost of rest.
Oh! had the guilt of war been all thy own,
My eve. civil rage confin'd to thee alone;
No mariner his labouring bark should moor,
III hopes of safety, on thy dreadful shore;
No swain thy spectre-haunted plain should know.
Nor turn thy blood-stain'd fallow with His plough;
No shepherd e'er should drive his flock to feed.
Where Romans slain enrich the verdant mead:
All desolate should lie thy land, and waste,
As in some scorch'd or frozen region plac'd.
But the great gods forbid our partial hate
On Thessaly's distinguish'd land to wait;
New blood and other slaughters they decree,
And others shall be guilty too, like thee.
Munda and Mutina shall boast their slain,
Pachynus' waters share the purple stain,
And Actium justify Pharsalia's plain.