Book VIII

Now through the vale, by great Alcides made,
And the sweet maze of Tempe's pleasing shade,
Cheerless, the flying chief renew'd his speed,
And urg'd, with gory spurs, his fainting steed.
Fall'n from the former greatness of his mind.
He turns where doubtful paths obscurely wind.
The fellows of his flight increase his dread,
While hard behind the trampling horsemen tread:
He starts at every rustling of the trees,
And fears the whispers of each murmuring breeze.
He feels not yet, alas! his lost estate
And though he flies, believes himself still great,
Imagines millions for his life are bid,
And rates his own, as he would Caesar's head.
Where'er his fear explores untrodden ways,
His well-known visage still his flight betrays.
Many he meets unknowing of his chance,
Whose gathering forces to his aid advance.
With gaze astonish'd, these their chief behold,
And scarce believe what by himself is told.
In vain to covert, from the world he flies,
Fortune still grieves him with pursuing eyes:
Still aggravates, still urges his disgrace,
And galls him with the thoughts of what he was.
His youthful triumph sadly now returns,
His Pontic and piratic wars he mourns,
While stung with secret shame and anxious care he burns.
Thus age to sorrows oft the great betrays,
When loss of empire comes with length of days.
Life and enjoyment still one end shall have,
Lest early misery prevent the grave.
The good that lasts not, was in vain bestow'd,
And ease, once past, becomes the present load:
Then let the wise, in fortune's kindest hour,
Still keep one safe retreat within his pow'r;
Let death be near, to guard him from surprise,
And free him, when the fickle goddess flies.
Now to those shores the hapless Pompey came,
Where hoary Peneus rolls his ancient stream:
Red with Emathian slaughter ran his flood,
And dy'd the ocean deep in Roman blood.
There a poor bark, whose keel perhaps might glide
Safe down some river's smooth descending tide,
Receiv'd the mighty master of the main,
Whose spreading navies hide the liquid plain.
In this he braves the winds and stormy sea,
And to the Lesbian isle directs his way.
There the kind partner of his every care,
His faithful, lov'd Cornelia, languish'd there:
At that sad distance more unhappy far,
Than in the midst of danger, death, and war.
There on her heart, ev'n all the live-long day,-
Fore-boding thought a weary burden lay:
Sad visions haunt her slumbers with affright,
And Thessaly returns with every night.
Soon as the ruddy morning paints the skies,
Swift to the shore the pensive mourner flies;
There, lonely sitting on the cliff's bleak brow.
Her sight she fixes on the seas below;
Attentive marks the wide horizon's bound,
And kens each sail that rises in the round:
Thick beats her heart, as every prow draws near,
And dreads the fortunes of her lord to hear.
At length, behold! the fatal bark is come!
See! the swoln canvass labouring with her doom:
Preventing fame, misfortune lends him wings,
And Pompey's self his oWn sad story brings.
Now bid, thy eyes, thou lost Cornelia, flow;
And change thy fears to certain sorrows now.
Swift glides the woeful vessel on to land;
Forth flies the headlong matron to the strand.
There soon she found what worst the gods could do,
There soon her dear much-alter'd lord she knew;
Though fearful oil, and ghastly was his hue.
Rude o'er his face his hoary locks were grown,
And dust was cast upon his Roman gown.
She saw, and fainting sunk in sudden night;
Grief stopt her breath, and shut out loathsome light:
The loosening nerves no more their force exert,
And motion ceas'd within the freezing heart;
Death kindly seem'd her wishes to obey,
And, stretched upon the beach, a corse she lay.
But now the mariners the vessel moor,
And Pompey, landing, views the lonely shore.
The faithful maids their loud lamentings ceas'd,
And reverently their ruder grief suppress'd.
Straight, while with duteous care they kneel around,
And raise their wretched mistress from the ground,
Her lord infolds her with a strict embrace,
And joins his cheek close to her lifeless face:
At the known touch, her failing sense returns,
And vital warmth in kindling blushes burns.
At length, from virtue thus he seeks relief,
And kindly chides her violence of grief.
"Canst thou then sink, thou daughter of the great,
Sprung from the noblest guardians of our state;
Canst thou thus yield to the first shock of fate?
Whatever deathless s monuments of praise
Thy sex can merit, 'tis in thee to raise.
On man alone life's ruder trials wait,
The fields of battle, and the cares of state;
While the wife's virtue then is only tried,
When faithless fortune quits her husband's side.
Arm then thy soul, the glorious task to prove,
And learn thy miserable lord to love.
Behold me of my power and pomp bereft.
By all my kings, and by Rome's fathers left:
Oh! make that loss thy glory; and be thou
The only follower of Pompey now.
This grief becomes thee not, while I survive;
War wounds not thee, since I am still alive:
These tears a dying husband should deplore,
And only fall when Pompey is no more.
'Tis true, my former greatness all is lost;
Who weep for that, no love for me can boast,
But mourn the loss of what they valued most.
Mov'd at her lord's reproof, the matron rose;
Yet, still complaining, thus avow'd her woes.
Ah? wherefore was I not much rather led,
A fatal bride, to Ca?sai J s hated bed?
To thee unlucky, and a curse, I came,
Unbless'd by yellow Hymen's holy flame.
My bleeding Crassus, and his sire, stood by,
And fell Erynnis shook her torch on high.
My fate on thee the Parthian vengeance draws.
And urges Heaven to hate the juster cause.
Ah, my once greatest lord! ah, cruel hour!
Is thy victorious head in Fortune's pow'r?
Since miseries my baneful love pursue,
Why did I wed thee only to undo?
But see, to death my willing neck I bow;
Atone the angry gods by one kind blow.
Long since, for thee, my life I would have giv'n;
Yet, let me, yet prevent the wrath of Heav'n.
Kill me, and scatter me upon the sea;
So shall propitious tides thy fleets convey,
Thy kings be faithful, and the world obey.
And thou, where'er thy sullen phantom flies,
O Julia! let thy rival's blood suffice;
Let me the rage of jealous vengeance bear,
But him, thy lord, thy once-lov'd Pompey, spare."
She said, and sunk within his arms again;
In streams of sorrow melt the mournful train:
Ev'n his, the warrior's eyes, were forc'd to yield,
That saw, without a tear, Pharsalia's field.
Now to the strand the Mitylenians press'd,
And humbly thus bespoke their noble guest:
If, to succeeding times, our isle shall boast
The pledge of Pompey left upon her coast;
Disdain not, if thy presence now we claim,
And fain would consecrate our walls to fame.
Make thou this place in future story great,
Where pious Romans may direct their feet,
To view with adoration thy retreat.
This may we plead, in favour of the town;
That while mankind the prosperous victor own,
Already, Caesar's foes avow'd, are we,
Nor add new guilt, by duty paid to thee.
Some Safety too our ambient seas secure;
Caesar wants ships, and we defy his pow'r.
Here may Rome's scatter'd fathers well unite,
And arm against a second happier fight.
Our Lesbian youth with ready coinage stands
To man thy navies, or recruit thy bands.
For gold, whate'er to sacred use is lent,
Take it, and the rapacious foe prevent.
This only mark of friendship we intreat,
Seek not to shun us in thy low estate;
But let our Lesbos in thy ruin prove,
As in thy greatness, worthy of thy love.
Much was the leader mov'd, and joy'd to find
Faith had not quite abandon'd human-kind.
"To me (he cried) for ever were you dear;
Witness the pledge committed to your care:
Here in security I plac'd my home,
My household-gods, my heart, my wife, my Rome.
I know what ransom might your pardon buy,
And yet I trust you, yet to you I fly.
But, oh! too long my woes you singly bear;
I leave you, not for lands which I prefer,
But that the world the common load may share.
Lesbos! for ever sacred be thy name!
May late posterity thy truth proclaim!
Whether thy fair example spread around,
Or whether singly faithful thou art found:
For 'tis resolv'd, 'tis fix'd within my mind,
To try the doubtful world, and prove mankind.
Oh grant, good heav'n! if there be one alone,
One gracious power so lost a cause to own;
Grant, like the Lesbians, I my friends may find;
Such who, though Caesar threaten, dare be kind:
Who, with the same just hospitable heart.
May leave me free to enter, or depart."
He ceas'd; and to the ship his partner bore,
While loud complainings fill the sounding shore.,
It seem'd as if the nation with her pass'd,
And banishment had laid their island waste.
Their second sorrows they to Pompey give,
For her, as for their citizen, they grieve,
Ev'n though glad victory had call'd her thence,
And her lord's bidding been the just pretence;
The Lesbian matrons had in tears been drown'd,
And brought her weeping to their watery bound
So was she lov'd, so whining was her grace,.
Such lowly sweetness dwelt upon her face;
In such humility her life she led, I;
Ev'n while her lord was Rome's commanding head,
As if his fortune were already fled.
Half hid in seas descending Phoebus lay,
And upwards half, half downwards shot the day;
When wakeful cares revolve in Pompey's soul.
And run the wide world o'er, from pole to pole.
Each realm, each city, in his mind are weigh'd;
Where he may fly, from whence depend on aid.
Wearied at length beneath that load of woes.
And those sad scenes his future views disclose,
In conversation for relief he sought,
And exercis'd on various themes his thought.
Now sits he by the careful pilot's side,
And asks what rules their watery journey guide;
What lights of heaven his art attends to most,
Bound for the Libyan or the Syrian coast?
To him, intent upon the rolling skies,
The heav'n-instructed shipman thus replies;
"Of all yon multitude of golden stars,
Which the wide rounding sphere incessant bears,
The cautious mariner relies on none,
But keeps him to the constant pole alone.
When o'er the yard the lesser Bear aspires,
And from the topmast gleam its paly fires,
Then Bosphorus near neighbouring we explore,
And hear loud billows beat the Scythian shore:
But when Calisto's shining son descends,
And the low Cynosure toward ocean bends,
For Syria straight we know the vessel bears,
Where first Canopus' southern sign appears.
If still upon the left those stars thou keep,
And passing Pharos, plough the foamy deep,
Then right a head thy luckless bark shall reach
The Libyan shoals, and Syrt's unfaithful beach.
But say, for lo! on thee attends my hand,
What course dost thou assign? what seas, what
Speak, and the helm shall turn at thy command."
To him the chief, by doubts uncertain toss'd:
"Oh! fly the Latian and Thessalian coast:
Those only lands avoid. For all beside,
Yield to the driving winds, and rolling tide;
Let fortune, where she please, a port provide.
Till Lesbos did my dearest pledge restore,
That thought determin'd me to seek that shore:
All ports, all regions, but those fatal two,
Are equal to unhappy Pompey now."
Scarce had he spoke, when straight the master veer'd,
And right for Chios and for Asia steer'd.
The working waves the course inverted feel,
And dash and foam beneath the winding keel;
With art like this, on rapid chariots borne,
Around the column skilful racers turn:
The nether wheels bear nicely on the goal,
The further wide in distant circles roll.
Now day's bright beams the various earth disclose,
And o'er the fading stars the sun arose;
When Pompey, gathering to his side, beheld
The scatter'd relics of Pharsalia's held.
First from the Lesbian isle his son drew near,
And soon a troop of faithful chiefs appear.
Nor purple princes yet disdain to wait
On vanquish'd Pompey's humbler low estate.
Proud monarchs, who in eastern kingdoms reign,
Mix in the great illustrious exile's train.
From these, apart, Deiotarus he draws,
The long approv'd companion of his cause:
Thou best (he cries) of all my royal friends!
Since with our loss Rome's power and empire ends;
What yet remains, but that we call from far
The eastern nations, to support the war?
Euphrates has not own'd proud Caesar's side,
And Tigris rolls a yet unconquer'd tide;
Let it not grieve thee, then, to seek for aid
From the wild Scythian, and remotest Mede.
To Parthia's monarch my distress declare,
And at his throne speak this my humble pray'r.
If faith in ancient leagues is to be found,
Leagues by our altars and your Magi bound;
Now string the Getic and Armenian bow,
And in full quivers feather'd shafts bestow.
If when o'er Caspian hills my troops I led,
'Gainst Allans, in eternal warfare bred,
I sought not once to make your Parthians yields
But left them free to range the Persian field.
Beyond the' Assyrian bounds my eagles flew,
And conquer d realms, that Cyrus never knew:
Ev'n to the utmost east I urg'd my way,
And, ere the Persian, saw the rising day:
Yet while beneath my yoke the nations bend,
I sought the Parthian, only as my friend.
Yet more: when Carrae blush'd with Crassus' bloody
And Latium her severest vengeance vow'd;
When war with Parthia was the common cry,
Who stop'd the fury of that rage,- but I?
If this be true, through Zeugma take your way
Nor let Euphrates' stream the march delay;
In gratitude, to my assistance come;
Fight Pompey's cause, and conquer willing Rome."
He said; the monarch cheerfully obey'd,
And straight aside his royal robes he laid;
Then bid his slaves their humbler vestments bring:
And in that servile veil conceals the king.
Thus majesty gives its proud trappings o'er.
And humbly seeks for safety from the poor:
The poor, who no disguises need, nor wear;
Unbless'd with greatness, and unvex'd with fear.
His princely friend now safe convey'd to land),
The chief o'erpass'd the fam'd Ephesian strand,
Caria's rocks, with Colophon's smooth deep,
And foamy cliffs with rugged Samos keep.
From Coan shores soft breathes the western wind.
And Rhodes and Gnidos soon are left behind:
Then crossing o'er Telmessos' ample bay,
Right to Pamphylia's coast he cuts his way.
Suspicious of the land, he keeps the main,
Till poor Phaselis, first, receives his wandering train.
There free from fears, with ease he may command
Her citizens, scarce equal to his band.
Nor lingering there, his swelling sails are spread.
Till he discerns proud Taurus' rising head:
A mighty mass he stands, while down his side
Descending Dipsas rolls his headlong tide.
In a slight bark he nine securely o'er
The pirates once infested dreadful shore.
Ah! when he set the watery empire free,
And swept the fierce Cilician from the sea,
Could the successful Warrior have forethought
'Twas for his future safety then he fought!
At length the gathering fathers of the state
In full assembly on their leader wait:
Within Syedra's walls their Senate meets,
Whom, sighing, thus the' illustrious exile greets.
"My friends! who with me fought, who with me fled,
And now are to me in my country's stead;
Though quite defenceless and unarm'd we stand,
On this Cilician, naked, foreign strand;
Though every mark of fortune's wrath we bear,
And seem to seek for counsel in despair;
Preserve your souls undaunted, free, and great,
And know I am not fall'n entirely yet.
Spite of the ruins of Emathia's plain,
Yet can I rear my drooping head again.
From Afric's dust abandon'd Marius rose,
To seize the fasces, and insult his foes.
My loss is lighter, less is my disgrace;
Shall I despair to reach my former place?
Still on the Grecian seas my navies ride,
And many a valiant leader owns my side.
All that Pharsalia's luckless field could do,
Was to disperse my forces, not subdue.
Still safe beneath my former fame I stand.
Dear to the world, and lov'd in every land.
'Tis yours to counsel and determine, whom
We shall apply to in the cause of Rome;
What faithful friend may best assistance bring;
The Libyan, Parthian, or Egyptian king!.
For me, what course my thoughts incline to take,
Here freely and at large I mean to speak.
These were Juba, Phraates, and Ptolemy.
What most dislike me in the Pharian prince,
Are his raw years, and yet unpractis'd sense:
Virtue, in youth, no stable footing finds,
And constancy is built on manly minds.
Nor, with less danger, may our trust explore
The faith uncertain of the crafty Moor:
From Carthaginian blood he draws his race,
Still mindful of the vanquish'd town's disgrace;
From thence Numidian mischiefs he derives,
And Hannibal in his false heart survives:
With pride he saw submissive Varus bow,
And joys to hear the Roman power lies low.
To warlike Parthia therefore let us turn,
Where stars unknown in distant azure burn;
Where Caspian hills to part the world arise,
And night and day succeed in other skies;
Where rich Assyrian plains Euphrates laves,
And seas discolour'd roll their ruddy waves.
Ambition there delights in arms to reign,
There rushing squadrons thunder o'er the plain;
There young and old the bow promiscuous bend,
And fatal shafts with aim unerring send.
They first the Macedonian phalanx broke,
And hand to hand repell'd the Grecian stroke;
They drove the Mede and Bactrian from the field,
And taught aspiring Babylon to yield;
Fearless against the Roman pile they stood,
And triumph'd in our vanquish'd Crassus' blood.
Nor trust they to the points of piercing darts,
But furnish death with new improving arts;
In mortal juices dip'd their arrows fly,
And if they taste the blood, the wounded die.
Too well their powers and favouring gods we Y know, f.
And wish our fate much rather would allow,
Some other aid against the common foe.
With unauspicious succour shall they come.
Nurs'd in the hate and rivalship of Rome:
While these the neighbouring nations round shall arm,
And the whole east rouse at the dire alarm.
Should the barbarian race their aid deny,
Yet would I choose in that strange land to die:
There let our shipwreck'd poor remains be thrown.
Our loss forgotten, and our names unknown:
Securely there ill-fortune would I brave,
Nor meanly sue to kings, whose crowns Gave!:
From Caesar free, enjoy my latest hour.
And scorn his anger's and his mercy's pow'r.
Still when my thoughts my former days restore.
With joy methinks I run those regions o'er;
There much the better parts of life I prov'd,
Rever'd by all, applauded and belov'd;
Wide o'er Maeotis spread my happy name,
And Tanais ran conscious of my fame;
My vanquish'd enemies my conquests mourn'd.
And cover'd still with laurels I return'd.
Approve then, Rome, my present cares for thee:
Thine is the gain, whate'er the' event shall he.
What greater boon can'st thou from heaven demand.
Than in thy cause to arm the Parthian's hand?
Barbarians thus shall wage thy civil war,
And those that hate thee in thy ruin share.
When Caesar and Phraates battle join.
They must revenge or Crassus' wrongs or mine."
The leader ceas'd; and straight a murmuring sound
Ran through the disapproving fathers round.
With these, in high pre-eminence, there sate
Distinguish'd Lentulus, the consul late:
None with more generous indignation stung,
Or nobler grief, beheld his country's wrong.
Sudden he rose, rever'd, and thus began,
In words that well became the subject and the man:
"Can then Pharsalia's ruins thus control
The former greatness of thy Roman soul?
Must the whole world, our laws and country, yield
To one unlucky day, one ill-fought field?
Hast thou no hopes of succour, no retreat,
But mean prostration at the Parthian's feet?
Art thou grown weary of our earth and sky;
That thus thou seek'st a fugitive to fly;
New altars to view, new regions to explore,
To learn new manners, and new gods adore?
Wilt thou before Chaldean altars bend,
Worship their fires, and on their kings depend?
Why didst thou draw the world to arms around;
Why cheat mankind with liberty's sweet sound;
Why on Emathia's plain fierce Caesar brave;
When thou canst yield thyself a tyrant's slave?
Shall Parthia, who with terror shook from far,
To hear thee nam'd to head the Roman war,
Who saw thee lead proud monarchs in thy chain,
From wild! Hyrcania and the Indian main;
Shall she, that very Parthia, see thee now,
A poor, dejected, humble suppliant bow?
Then haughtily with Rome her greatness mate.
And scorn thy country, for thy groveling fate?
Thy tongue, in eastern languages untaught,
Shall want the words that should explain thy thought:
Tears then, unmanly, must thy suit declare;
And suppliant hands, uplifted, speak thy pray'r.
Shall Parthia (shall it to our shame be known)
Revenge Rome's wrongs,ere Rome revenge her own?
Our war no interfering kings demands,
Nor shall be trusted to barbarian hands:
Among ourselves our bonds we will deplore,
And Rome shall serve the. rebel son she bore.
Why wouldst thou bid our foes transgress their bound,
And teach their feet to tread Hesperian ground?
With ensigns, torn from Crassus, shall they come,
And with his ravish'd honours threaten Rome
His fate those blood-stain'd eagles shall recal,
And hover dreadful o'er their native wall.
Canst thou believe the monarch who withheld
His only forces from Emathia's field,
Will bring his succours to thy waning state,
And bravely now defy the victor's hate?
No eastern courage forms a thought so great.
In cold laborious climes the wintry north
Brings her undaunted hardy warriors forth;
In body and in mind untaught to yield,
Stubborn of soul, and steady in the field;
While Asia's softer climate, form'd to please,
Dissolves her sons in insolence and ease.
Here silken robes invest unmanly limbs,
And in long trains the flowing purple streams.
Where no rode hills Sarmatia's wilds restrain,
Or rushing Tigris cuts the level plain,
Swifter than winds along the champain borne,
At liberty they fly, or fight, or turn e
And distant still, the vain pursuer scorn.
Nor with like ease they force their warlike way,
Where rough unequal grounds their speed delay.
Whene'er the thicker shades of night arise,
Unaim'd the shaft, and unavailing, flies.
Nor are they form'd with constancy to meet
Those toils, that make the panting soldier sweat:
To climb the heights, to stem the rapid flood,
To make the dusty noon-day battle good,
Horrid with wounds, and crusted o'er in blood.
Nor war's machines they know, nor have the skill
To shake the rampire, or the trench to fill:
Each fence that can their winged shafts endure,
Stands, like a fort impregnable, secure.
Light are their skirmishes, their war is flight,
And still to wheel their wavering troops delight.
To taint their coward darts is all their care,
And then to trust them to the flitting air.
Whene'er their bows have spent the feather'd store,
The mighty business of their war is o'er:
No manly strokes they try, nor hand to hand
With cleaving swords in sturdy combat stand.
With swords the valiant still their foes invade;
These call in drugs and poison to their aid.
Are these the powers to whom thou bidst us fly?
Is this the land in which thy bones would lie?
Shall these barbarian hands for thee provide
The grave, to thy unhappy friend denied?
But, be it so! that death shall bring thee peace,
That here thy sorrows and thy toils shall cease.
Death is what man should wish. But oh! what fate
Shall on thy wife, thy sad survivor, wait?
For her, where lust with lawless empire reigns,
Somewhat more terrible than death remains.
Have we not heard, with what abhor'd desires
The Parthian Venus feeds her guilty fires?
How their wild monarch, like the bestial race,
Spreads the pollution of his lewd embrace?
Unaw'd by reverence of connubial rites,
In multitudes, luxurious, he delights:
When gorg'd with feasting, and inflam'd with wine,
No joys can sate him, and no laws confine;
Forbidding nature, then, commands in vain,
From sisters and from mothers to abstain.
The Greek and Roman, with a trembling ear,
The' unwilling crime of Oedipus may hear;
While Parthian kings like deeds with glory own.
And boast incestuous titles to the throne.
If crimes like these they can securely brave,
What laws, what power shall thy Cornelia save?
Think, how the helpless matron may be led,
The thousandth harlot, to the royal bed.
Though when the tyrant clasps his noble slave.
And hears to whom her plighted hand she gave,
Her beauties oft in scorn he shall prefer,.
And choose to' insult the Roman name in her.
These are the powers to whom thou wouldst submit,
And Rome's revenge and Crassus' quite forget.
Thy cause, prefer'd to his, becomes thy shame.
And blots, in common, thine and Caesar's name.
With how much greater glory might you join,
To drive the Daci, or to free the Rhine?
How well your conquering legions might you lead
'Gainst the fierce Bactrian, and the haughty Mede?
Level proud Babylon's aspiring domes,
And with their spoils enrich our slaughter'd leader's tombs?
No longer, Fortune! let our friendship last,
Our peace, ill-omen'd, with the barbarous east;
If civil strife with Caesar's conquest end.
To Asia let his prosperous arms extend:
Eternal wars there let the victor wage.
And on proud Parthia pour the Roman rage.
There I, there all, his victories may bless,
And Rome herself make vows for his success.
Whene'er thou pass the cold Araxes o'er,
An aged shade shall greet thee on the shore,
Transfix'd with arrows, mournful, pale, and hoar.
"And art thou (shall he cry, complaining) com
In peace and friendship to these foes of Rome?
Thou! from whose hand we hop'd revenge in vain,
Poor naked ghosts, a thin unburied train,
That flit, lamenting, o'er this dreary plain?
On every side new objects shall disclose
Some mournful monument of Roman woes;
On every wall fresh marks thou shalt descry,
Where pale Hesperian heads were fix'd on high:
Each river, as he rolls his purple tide,
Shall own his waves in Latian slaughter dy'd.
If sights like these thou canst with patience bear,-
What are the horrors which thy soul would fear?
Ev'n Caesar's self with joy may be beheld,
Enthron'd on slaughter in Emathia's field.
Say, then, we grant, thy cautions were not vain,-
Of Punic frauds and Juba's faithless reign;
Abounding Egypt shall receive thee yet,
And yield, unquestion'd, a secure retreat,-
By nature strengthen'd with a dangerous strand,
Her syrts and untried channels guard the land.
Rich in the fatness of her plenteous soil,
She plants her only confidence in Nile.
Her monarch, bred beneath thy guardian cares,
His crown, the largess of thy bounty, wears.
Nor let unjust suspicions brand his truth;
Candour and innocence still dwell with youth.
Trust not a power accustom'd to be great,
And vers'd in wicked policies of state.
Old kings, long harden'd in the regal trade,
By interest and by craft alone are sway'd,
And violate with ease the leagues they made:
While new ones still make conscience of the trust.
True to their friends, and to their subjects just."
He spoke; the listening fathers all were mov'd.
And with concurring votes the thought approv'd.
So much ev'n dying liberty prevail'd,
When Pompey's suffrage and his counsel fail'd.
And now Cilicia's coast the fleet forsake,
And o'er the watery plain for Cyprus make.
Cyprus, to love's ambrosial goddess dear.
For ever grateful smoke the altars there:
Indulgent still she hears the Paphian vows,
And loves the favourite seas from whence she rose.
So fame reports, if we may credit fame,
When her fond tales the birth of gods proclaim,
Unborn, and from eternity the same.!
The craggy cliffs of Cyprus quickly past,
The chief runs southward o'er the ocean vast.
Nor views he, through the murky veil of night,
The Casian mountain's far-distinguish'd height,
The high-hung lantern, or the beamy light.
Haply at length the labouring canvass bore
Full on the furthest bounds of Egypt's shore,
Where near Pelusium parting Nile descends,
And in her utmost eastern channel ends.
'Twas now the time when equal Jove on high
Had hung the golden balance of the sky:
But ah I not long such just proportions last!
The righteous season soon was chang'd and past;
And spring's encroachment on the shortening shade
Was fully to the wintry nights repaid:
When to the chief from shore they made report,
That, near high Casiura, lay the Pharian court.
This known, he thither turns his ready sail,
The light yet lasting with the favouring gale.
The fleet arriv'd, the news flies swiftly round,
And their new guests the troubled court confound.
The time was short: howe'er the council met,
Vile ministers, a monstrous motley set.
Of these, the chief in honour, and the best,
Was old Achoreus, the Memphian priest;
In Isis and Osiris he believ'd,
And reverend tales, from sire to son receiv'd;
Could mark the swell of Nile's increasing tide,-
And many in Apis in his time had died;
Yet was his age with gentlest manners fraught,
Humbly he spoke, and modestly he taught.
With good intent the pious seer arose,
And told how much their state to Pompey owes:
What large amends their monarch ought to make.
Both for his own, and for his father's sake.
But fate had plac'd a subtler speaker there,
A tongue more fitted for a tyrant's ear,
Pothinus, deep in arts of mischief read,
Who thus, with false persuasion, blindly led
The easy king to doom his guardian dead.
"To strictest justice many ills belong,
And honesty is often in the wrong:
Chiefly, when stubborn rules her zealots push,
To favour those whom fortune means to crush.
But thou, oh royal Ptolemy! be wise;
Change with the gods, and fly whom fortune flies.
Not earth, from yon high heavens which we admire,
Not from the watery element, the fire,
Are sever'd by distinction half so wide
As interest and integrity divide.
The mighty power of kings no more prevails,
When Justice comes with her deciding scales.
Freedom for all things, and a lawless sword,
Alone support an arbitrary lord.
He that is cruel must be bold in ills,
And find his safety from the blood he spills.
For piety, and virtue's starving rules,
To mean retirements let them lead their fools:
There may they still ingloriously be good;
None can be safe in courts who blush at blood.
Nor let this fugitive despise thy years,
Or think a name like his can cause thy fears:
Exert thyself, and let him feel thy pow'r,
And know, that we dare drive him from our shore.
But if thou wish to lay thy greatness down,
To some more just succession yield thy crown;
Thy rival sister willingly shall reign,
And save our Egypt from a foreign chain.
As now, at first, in neutral peace we lay.
Nor would be Pompey's friends, nor Caesar's prey.
Vanquish'd where'er his fortune had been tried,
And driv'n with scorn from all the world beside,
By Caesar chas'd, and left by his allies,
To us a baffled vagabond he flies.
The poor remaining senate loathe his sight,
And ruin'd monarchs curse his fatal flight:
While thousand phantoms from the' unburied slain,
Who feed the vultures of Emathia's plain,
Disastrous still pursue him in the rear,
And urge his soul with horror and despair,
To us for refuge now he seeks to run,
And would once more with Egypt be undone.
Rouse then, oh! Ptolemy, repress the wrong;
He thinks we have enjoy'd our peace too long:
And therefore kindly comes, that we may share
The crimes of slaughter, and the woes of war.
His friendship shown to thee suspicions draws,
And makes us seem too guilty of his cause:
Thy crown bestow'd, the victor may impute;
The senate gave it, but at Pompey's suit
Nor, Pompey! thou thyself shall think it hard,
If from thy aid by fate we are debar'd.
We follow where the gods constraining lead;
We strike at thine, but wish 'twere Caesar's head.
Our weakness this, this fate's compulsion call;
We only yield to him who conquers all.
Then doubt not if thy blood we mean to spill;
Power awes us; if we can, we must and will.
What hopes thy fond mistaking soul betray'd,
To put thy trust in Egypt's feeble aid?
Our slothful nation, long disus'd to toil,
With pain suffice to till their slimy soil;
Our idle force due modesty should teach,
Nor dare to aim beyond its humble reach.
Shall we resist where Rome was forc'd to yield.
And make us parties to Pharsalia's field
We mix'd not in the fatal strife before;
And shall we, when the world has given it o'er?
Now! when we know the' avenging victor's powr?
Nor do we turn unpitying from distress;
We fly not Pompey's woes, but seek success.
The prudent on the prosperous still attends,
And none but fools choose wretches for their friends."
He said; the vile assembly all assent,
And the boy-king his glad concurrence lent.
Fond of the royalty his slaves bestow'd,
And by new power of wickedness made proud.
Where Casium high o'erlooks the shoaly strand,
A bark with armed ruffians straight is man'd,
And the task trusted to Achillas' hand.
Can then Egyptian souls thus proudly dare?
Is Rome, ye gods! thus fall'n by civil war?
Can you to Nile transfer the Roman guilt,
And let such blood by coward hands be spilt?
Some kindred murderer at least afford,
And let him fall by Caesar's worthy sword;
And thou, inglorious, feeble, beardless boy!
Darst thou thy hand in such a deed employ?
Does not thy trembling heart with horror dread
Jove's thunder grumbling o'er thy guilty head?
Had not his arms with Triumphs oft been crown'd,
And ev'n the vanquish'd world his conquest own'd;
Had not the reverend senate call'd him head,
And Caesar given fair Julia to his bed.
He was a Roman still: a name should he
For ever sacred, to a king like thee.
Ah fool! thus blindly by thyself undone,
Thou seek'st his ruin who upheld thy throne;
He only could thy feeble power maintain
Who gave thee first o'er Egypt's realm to reign.
The seamen, now advancing near to shore,
Strike the wide sail, and ply the plunging oar;
When the false miscreants the navy meet,
And with dissembled cheer the Roman greet.
They feign their hospitable land address'd,
With ready friendship, to receive her guest;
Excusing much an inconvenient shore,
Where shoals lie thick, and meeting currents roar:
From his tall ship, unequal to the place,
They beg him to their lighter bark to pass.
Had not the gods, unchangeably, decreed
Devoted Pompey in that hour to bleed,
A thousand signs the danger near foretel,
Seen by his sad presaging friends too well.
Had their low fawning justly been design'd,
If truth could lodge in an Egyptian mind,
Their king himself with all his fleet had come,
To lead in pomp his benefactor home.
But thus fate will'd; and Pompey chose to bear
A certain death before uncertain fear.
While now aboard the hostile boat he goes,
To follow him the frantic matron vows,
And claims her partnership in all his woes.
"But oh! forbear (he cries), my love, forbear;
Thou and my son remain in safety here.
Let this old head the danger first explore,
And prove the faith of yon suspected shore."
He spoke; but she, unmov'd at his commands,
Thus loud exclaiming, stretch'd her eager hands:
Whither, inhuman! whither art thou gone?
Still must I weep our common griefs alone?
Joy still with thee forsakes my boding heart;
And fatal is the hour whene'er we part.
Why did thy vessel to my Lesbos turn?
Why was I from the faithful island borne?
Must I all lands, all shores alike forbear,
And only on the seas thy sorrows share?"
Thus to the winds loud plain'd her fruitless tongue,
While eager from the deck on high she hung;
Trembling with wild astonishment and fear.
She dares not, while her parting lord they bear,
Turn her eyes from him once, or fix them there.
On him his anxious navy all are bent,
And wait solicitous the dire event.
No danger aim'd against his life they doubt;
Care for his glory only fills their thought:
They wish he may not stain his name renown'd,
By mean submission to the boy he crown'd.
Just as lie enter'd o'er the vessel's side,
"Hail, general!' the curs'd Septimius cried
A Roman once in generous warfare bred,
And oft in arms by mighty Pompey led;
But now (what vile dishonour must it bring!)
The ruffian slave of an Egyptian king.
Fierce was he, horrible, inur'd to blood,
And ruthless as the savage of the wood.
Oh, Fortune! who but would have call'd thee kind,
And thought thee mercifully now inclin'd,
When thy o'erruling providence withheld
This hand of mischief from Pharsalia's field?
But thus thou scatter'st thy destroying swords,
And every land thy victims thus affords.
Shall Pompey at a tyrant's bidding bleed?
Can Roman hands be to the task decreed?
Ev'n Caesar and his gods abhor the deed.
Say, you! who with the stain of murder brand
Immortal Brutus's avenging hand;
What monstrous title, yet to speech unknown,
To latest times shall mark Septimius down?
Now in the boat defenceless Pompey sate,
Surrounded, and abandon'd to his fate.
Nor long they hold him in their power aboard,
Ere every villain drew his ruthless sword.
The chief perceiv'd their purpose soon, and spread
His Roman gown with patience o'er his head:
And when the curs'd Achillas pierc'd his breast,
His rising indignation close repress'd.
No sighs, no groans, his dignity profan'd,
Nor tears his still unsullied glory stain'd:
Unmov'd and firm he fix'd him on his seat,
And died, as when he liv'd and conquer'd, great?
Meanwhile, within his equal parting soul,
These latest pleasing thoughts revolving roll.
For Caesar sure is there; no hand but his
Has right to such a parricide as this.
But whether Caesar, or whoe'er thou art,
Thou hast mistook the way to Pompey's heart:
That sacred pledge in my sad bosom lies,
There plunge thy dagger, and he more than dies.
Me, too, most worthy of thy fury know,
The partner of his arms, and sworn your foe.
Of all our Roman wives, I singly bore
The camp's fatigue, the sea's tempestuous roar:
No dangers, not the victor's wrath, I fear'd;
What mighty monarchs durst not do I dar'd.
These guilty arms did their glad refuge yield,
And clasp'd him, flying from Pharsalia's field.
Ah Pompey! dost thou thus my faith reward?
Shalt thou be doom'd to die, and I be spar'd?
But fate shall many means of death afford,
Nor want the' assistance of a tyrant's sword.
And you, my friends, in pity, let me leap
Hence headlong, down amidst the tumbling deep:
Or to my neck the strangling cordage tie;!
If there be any friend of Pompey nigh,
Transfix me, stab me; do but let me die!
My lord! my husband! — Yet thou art not dead
And see! Cornelia is a captive led:
From thee their cruel hands thy wife detain,
Reserv'd to wear the' insulting victor's chain."
She spoke j and stiffening sunk in cold despair;
Her weeping maids the lifeless burden bear;
While the pale mariners the bark unmoor,
Spread every sail, and fly the faithless shore.
Nor agonies, nor livid death, disgrace
The sacred features of the hero's face
In the cold visage, mournfully serene,
The same indignant majesty was seen;
There virtue still unchangeable abode.
And scorn'd the spite of' every partial god.
The bloody business now complete and done.
New furies urge the fierce Septimius on.
He rends the robe that veil'd the hero's head,
And to full view expos'd the recent dead;
Hard in his horrid gripe the face he press'd,
While yet the quivering muscles life confess'd:
He drew the dragging body down with haste,
Then cross a rower's seat the neck he plac'd;
There, awkward, haggling, he divides the bone,
(The headsman's art was then but rudely known.)
Straight on the spoil his Pharian partner flies,
And robs the heartless villain of his prize.
The head, his trophy, proud Achillas bears;
Septimius an inferior drudge appears,
And in the meaner mischief poorly shares.
Caught by the venerable locks which grow
In hoary ringlets on his generous brow,
To Egypt's impious king that head they bear.
That laurels us'd to bind, and monarchs fear.
Those sacred lips, and that commanding tongue,
On which the listening forum oft has hung;
That tongue which could the world with ease restrain,
And ne'er commanded war or peace in vain;
That face, in which success came smiling home,
And doubled every joy it brought to Rome;
Now pale and wan, is fix'd upon a spear,
And borne, for public view, aloft in air.
The tyrant pleas'd beheld it, and decreed
To keep this pledge of his detested deed,
His slaves straight drain the serous parts away,
And arm the wasting flesh against decay;
Then drugs and gums through the void vessels pass,
And for duration fix the stiffening mass.
Inglorious boy! degenerate and base!
Thou last and worst of the Lagaean race!
Whose feeble throne ere long shall be compell'd
To thy lascivious sister's reign to yield:
Canst thou, with altars and with rites divine, -
The rash vain youth of Macedon enshrine;
Can Egypt such stupendous fabrics build;
Can her wide plains with pyramids be fill'd;
Canst thou, beneath such monumental pride,
Thy worthless Ptolemaean fathers hide;
While the great Pompey's headless trunk is toss'd
In scorn, unburied, on thy barbarous coast
Was it so much? could not thy care suffice,
To keep him whole, and glut his father's eyes?
In this his fortune ever held the same,
Still wholly kind, or wholly cross, she came.
Patient his long prosperity she bore,
But kept this death, and this sad day, in store.
No meddling god did e'er his power employ,
To ease his sorrows, or to damp his joy;
Unmingled came the bitter and the sweet,
And all his good and evil was complete.
No sooner was he struck by fortune's hand,
But, see! he lies unburied on the sand:
Rocks tear him, billows toss him up and down,
And Pompey by a headless trunk is known.
He asks no heaps of frankincense to rise,
No eastern odours to perfume the skies;
No Roman necks his patriot corse to bear,
No reverend train of statues to appear;
No pageant shows his glories to record,
And tell the triumphs of his conquering sword;
No instruments in plaintive notes to sound,
No legions sad to march in solemn round:
A bier, no better than the vulgar need,
A little wood the kindling flame to feed,
With some poor hand to tend the homely fire,
Is all these wretched relies now require.
Your wrath, ye powers! Cornelia's hand denies;
Let that, for every other loss, suffice:
She takes not her last leave, she weeps not here,
And yet she is, ye gods! she is too near."
Thus while he spoke, he saw where through the shade
A slender flame its gleamy light display'd;
There, as it chanc'd, abandon'd and unmourn'd,
A poor neglected body lonely burn'd.
He seiz'd the kindled brands; and "Oh! (he said)
Whoe'er thou art, forgive me, friendless shade;
And though unpitied and forlorn thou lie,
Thyself a better office shalt supply.
If there be sense in souls departed, thine
To my great leader shall her rites resign:
With humble joy shall quit her meaner claim,
And blush to burn when Pompey wants the flame."
He said; and, gathering in his garment, bore
The glowing fragments to the neighbouring shore.
There soon arriv'd, the noble trunk he found,
Half wash'd into the flood, half resting on the ground.
With diligence his hands a trench prepare,
Fit it around, and place the body there.
No cloven oaks in lofty order lie,
To lift the great patrician to the sky:
By chance a few poor planks were hard at hand,
By some late shipwreck cast upon the strand;
These pious Cordus gathers where they lay,
And plants about the chief, as best he may.
Now while the blaze began to rise around,
The youth sat mournful by upon the ground:
"And, oh! (he cried) if this unworthy flame
Disgrace thy great majestic Roman name;
If the rude outrage of the stormy seas
Seem better to thy ghost than rites like these;
Yet let thy injur'd shade the wrong forget,
Which duty and officious zeal commit.
Fate seems itself in my excuse to plead;
And thy hard fortune justifies my deed.
I only wish'd, nor is that wish in vain,
To save thee from the monsters of the main;
From vultures' claws, from lions that devour,
From mortal malice, and from Caesar's pow'r.
No longer then this humbler flame withstand,
'Tis lighted to thee by a Roman hand.
If ere the gods permit unhappy me
Once more thy lov'd Hesperian land to see;
With me thy exil'd ashes shall return,
And chaste Cornelia give thee to thy urn
Meanwhile a signal shall my care provide,
Some future Roman votary to guide;
When with due rites thy fate he would deplore,
And thy pale head to these thy limbs restore:
Then shall he mark the witness of my stone.
And, taught by me, thy sacred ghost atone."
He spoke; and straight with busy pious hands
Heap'd on the smoking corse the scatter'd brands:
Slow sunk amidst the fire the wasting dead,
And the faint flame with dropping marrow fed.
Now 'gan the glittering stars to fade away
Before the rosy promise of the day,
When the pale youth the' unfinish'd rites forsook,
And to the covert of his cave betook.
Ah! why thus rashly would thy fears disclaim
That only deed which must record thy name?
Ev'n Caesar's self shall just applause bestow,
And praise the Roman that inters his foe.
Securely tell him where his son is laid,
And he shall give thee back his mangled head.
But soon behold! the bolder youth returns,
While, half consum'd, the smouldering carcase burns;
Ere yet the cleansing fire had melted down
The fleshy muscles from the firmer bone.
He quench'd the relics in the briny wave,
And hid them hasty in a narrow grave:
Then with a stone the sacred dust he binds,
To guard it from the breath of scattering winds:
And lest some heedless mariner should come,
And violate the warrior's humble tomb;
Thus with a line the monument he keeps,
With these the mighty Pontic king be plac'd,
And every nation of the vanquish'd east:
Tell with what loud applause of Rome he drove
Thrice his glad wheels to Capitolian Jove:
Tell too the patriot's greatest best renown,
Tell how the victor laid his empire down,
And chang'd his armour for the peaceful gown.
But ah! what marbles to the task suffice?
Instead of these, turn, Roman! turn thy eyes:
Seek the known name our Fasti us'd to wear,
The noble mark of many a glorious year;
The name that wont the trophied arch to grace,
And ev'n the temples of the gods found place:
Decline thee lowly, bending to the ground,
And there that name, that Pompey may be found.
Oh, fatal land! what curse can I bestow,
Equal to those we to thy mischiefs owe?
Well did the wise Cumaean maid of yore
Warn our Hesperian chiefs s to shun thy shore.
Forbid, just Heavens! your dews to bless the soil,
And thou, withhold thy waters, fruitful Nile!
Like Egypt, like the land of Ethiops, burn,
And her fat earth to sandy deserts turn.
Have we, with honours, dead Osiris crown'd,
And mourn'd him to the tinkling timbrel's sound
Receiv'd her Isis to divine abodes,
And rank'd her dogs deform'd with Roman gods:
While, in despite to Pompey's injur'd shade,
Low in her dust his sacred bones are laid?
And thou, oh Rome! by whose forgetful hand
Altars and temples, rear'd to tyrants, stand:
Canst thou neglect to call thy hero home,
And leave his ghost in banishment to roam?
What though the victor's frown, and thy base fear,
Bade thee, at first, the pious task forbear;
Yet now, at least, oh! let him now return,
And rest with honour in a Roman urn.
Nor let mistaken superstition dread,
On such occasions, to disturb the dead:
Oh! would commanding Rome my hand employ,
The impious task should be perform'd with joy:
How would I fly to tear him from that tomb,
And bear his ashes in my bosom home!
Perhaps when flames their dreadful ravage make.
Or groaning earth shall from the centre shake;
When blasting dews the rising harvest seize,
Or nations sicken with some dire disease;
The gods, in mercy to us, shall command
To fetch our Pompey from the' accursed land.
Then when his venerable bones draw near,
In long procession shall the priests appear,
And their great chief the sacred relics bear.
Or if thou still possess the Pharian shore.
What traveller but shall thy grave explore;
Whether he tread Syene's burning soil,
Or visit sultry Thebes, or fruitful Nile:
Or if the merchant, drawn by hopes of gain.
Seek rich Arabia, and the ruddy main;
With holy rites thy shade he shall atone,
And bow before thy venerable stone.
For who but shall prefer thy tomb, above
The meaner fane of an Egyptian Jove?
Nor envy thou, if abject Romans raise
Statues and temples to their tyrant's praise;
Though his proud name on altars may preside,
And thine be wash'd by every rolling tide;
Thy grave shall the vain pageantry despise,
Thy grave, where that great god, thy fortune! lies.
Ev'n those who kneel not to the gods above,
Nor offer sacrifice or prayer to Jove,
To the bidental bend their humble eyes,
And worship where the bury'd thunder lies.
Perhaps fate wills, in honour to thy fame,
No marble shall record thy mighty name.
So may thy dust, ere long, be worn away,
And all remembrance of thy wrongs decay:
Perhaps a better age shall come, when none
Shall think thee ever laid beneath this stone;
When Egypt's boast of Pompey's tomb, shall prove
As unbeliev'd a tale, as Crete relates of Jove.