Book IX

Nor in the dying embers of its pile
Slept the great soul upon the banks of Nile;
Nor longer, by the earthy parts restrain'd,
Amidst its wretched relies was detain'd;
But active, and impatient of delay,
Shot from the mouldering heap, and upward urg'd its way.
Far in those azure regions of the air
Which border on the rolling starry sphere,
Beyond our orb, and nearer to that height
Where Cynthia drives around her silver light;
Their happy seats the demi-gods possess,
Refin'd by virtue, and prepar'd for bliss;
Of life unblam'd, a pure and pious race,
Worthy that lower heaven and stars to grace,
Divine, and equal to the glorious place.
There Pompey's soul, adorn'd with heavenly light,
Soon shone among the rest,and as the rest was bright.
New to the bless'd abode, with wonder fill'd,
The stars and moving planets he beheld;
Then looking down on the sun's feeble ray,
Survey'd our dusky, faint, imperfect day,
And under what a cloud of night we lay.
But when he saw, how on the shore forlorn
His headless trunk was cast for public scorn;
When he beheld how envious fortune still
Took pains to use a senseless carcase ill;
He smil'd at the vain malice of his foe,
And pitied impotent mankind below.
Then lightly passing o'er Emathia's plain,
His flying navy scatter'd on the main,
And cruel Caesar's tents; he fix'd at last
His residence in Brutus' sacred breast:
There brooding o'er his country's wrongs he sate,
The state's avenger, and the tyrant's fate;
There mournful Rome might still her Pompey find.
There, and in Cato's free unconquer'd mind.
He while in deep suspense the world yet lay,
Anxious and doubtful whom it should obey,
Hatred avow'd to Pompey's self did bear.
Though his companion in the common war.
Though, by the Senate's just command, they stood
Engag'd together for the public good:
And firmly fix'd him to the vanquish'd side.
His helpless country, like an orphan left,
Friendless and poor, of all support bereft,
He took and cherish'd with a father's care,
He comforted, he bad her not to fear;
And taught her feeble hands once more the trade T of war.
Nor lust of empire did his courage sway,
Nor hate, nor proud repugnance to obey:
Passions and private interest he forgot;
Not for himself, but liberty, he fought.
Straight to Corcyra's port his way he bent,
The swift advancing victor to prevent;
Who marching sudden on, to new success,
The scatter'd legions might with ease oppress:
There, with the ruins of Emathia's field.
The flying host, a thousand ships he fill'd.
Who that from land, with wonder, had descried
The passing fleet, in all its naval pride,
Stretch'd wide, and o'er the distant ocean spread,
Could have believ'd those mighty numbers fled?
Malea o'erpast, and the Taenarian shore,
With swelling sails he for Cythera bore;
Then Crete he saw, and with a northern wind
Soon left the fam'd Dictaean isle behind.
Urg'd by the bold Phycustine's churlish pride,
(Their shores, their haven, to his fleet denied),
The chief reveng'd the wrong; and, as he pass'd;
Laid their unhospitable city waste.
Thence wafted forward, to the coast he came
Which took of old from Palinure its name.
(Nor Italy this monument alone
Can boast; since Libya's Palinure has shown
Her peaceful shores were to the Trojan known).
From hence they soon descry, with doubtful pain,
Another navy on the distant main.
Anxious they stand, and now expect the foe,
Now their companions in the public woe:
The victor's haste inclines them most to fear;
Each vessel seems a hostile face to wear,
And every sail they spy, they fancy Caesar there.
But, oh! those ships a different burden bore,
A mournful freight they wafted to the shore:
Sorrows, that might tears, ev'n from Cato, gain.
And teach the rigid stoic to complain.
When long the sad Cornelia's prayers, in vain,
Had tried the flying navy to detain;
With Sextus long had strove, and long implor'd,
To wait the relics of her murder'd lord;
The waves perchance might the dear pledge restore,
And waft him bleeding from the faithless shore.
Still grief and love their various hopes inspire,
Till she beholds her Pompey's funeral fire,
Till on the land she sees the' ignoble flame
Ascend, unequal to the hero's name;
Then into just complaints at length she broke,
And thus with pious indignation spoke.
"Oh, fortune! dost thou then disdain to' afford
My love's last office to my dearest lord;
Am I one chaste, one last embrace denied?
Shall I not lay me by his clay-cold side,
Nor tears to bathe his gaping wounds provide?
Am I unworthy the sad torch to bear,
To light the flame, and burn my flowing hair?
To gather from the shore the noble spoil,
And place it decent on the fatal pile?
Shall not his bones and sacred dust be borne
In this sad bosom, to their peaceful urn?
Whate'er the last consuming flame shall leave,
Shall not this widow'd hand by right receive,
And to the gods the precious relics give?
Perhaps, this last respect which I should show,
Some vile Egyptian hand does now bestow,
Injurious to the Roman shade below.
Happy, my Crassus, were thy bones, which lay
Expos'd to Parthian birds and beasts of prey!
Here the last rites the cruel gods allow,
And, for a curse, my Pompey's pile bestow.
For ever will the same sad fate return?
Still an unburied husband must I mourn,
And weep my sorrows o'er an empty urn?
But why should tombs be built, or urns be made?
Does grief like mine require their feeble aid?
Is he not lodg'd, thou wretch! within thy heart,
And fix'd in every dearest vital part?
O'er monuments surviving wives may grieve,
She ne'er will need 'em who disdains to live.
But oh! behold where yon malignant flames
Cast feebly forth their mean inglorious beams:
From my lov'd lord, his dear remains they rise,
And bring my Pompey to my weeping eyes:
And now they sink, the languid lights decay,
The cloudy smoke all eastward rolls away,
And wafts my hero to the rising day.
Me too the winds demand with freshening gales,
Envious they call, and stretch the swelling sails.
No land on earth seems dear as Egypt now,
No land that crowns and triumphs did bestow,
And with new laurels bound my Pompey's brow.
That happy Pompey to my thoughts is lost,
He that is left, lies dead on yonder coast;
He, only he, is all I now demand,
For him I linger near this cursed land:
Endear'd by crimes, for horrors lov'd the more,
I cannot, will not, leave the Pharian shore.
Thou, Sextus, thou shalt prove the chance of war,
And through the world thy father's ensigns bear,f
Then hear his last command, intrusted to my care: —
While one shall of our free-born race remain,
Let him prevent the tyrant Caesar's reign.
From each free city round, from every land,
Their warlike aid in Pompey's name demand.
These are the parties, these the friends he leaves,
This legacy your dying father gives.
If for the sea's wide rule your arms you bear,!
A Pompey ne'er can want a navy there,
Heirs of my fame, my sons shall wage my war.
Only be bold, unconquer'd in the fight.
And, like your father, still defend the right,
To Cato, if for liberty he stand,
Submit, and yield you to his ruling band,
Brave, just, and only worthy to command!
At length to thee, my Pompey, I am just,
I have surviv'd, and well discharg'd my trust;
Through Chaos now, and the dark realms below,
To follow thee, a willing shade I go:
If longer with a lingering fate I strive,
Tis but to prove the pain of being alive,
'Tis to be curs'd for daring to survive.
She, who could bear to see thy wounds, and live,
New proofs of love and fatal grief shall give.
Nor need she fly for succour to the sword,
The steepy precipice, and deadly cord;
She from herself shall find her own relief,
And scorn to die of any death — but grief."
So said the matron; and about her head
Her veil she draws, her mournful eyes to shade.
Resolv'd to shroud in thickest shades of woe,
She seeks the ship's deep darksome hold below:
There lonely left, at leisure to complain,
She hugs her sorrows, and enjoys her pain;
Still with fresh tears the living grief would feed,
And fondly loves it, in her husband's stead.
In vain the beating surges raise aloud,
And swelling Eurus grumbles in the shroud
Her, nor the waves beneath, nor winds above,
Nor all the noisy cries of fear, can move;
In sullen peace compos'd for death she lies.
And waiting, longs to hear the tempest rise;
Then hopes the seamen's vows shall all be cross'd,
Prays for the storm, and wishes to be lost.
Soon from the Pharian coast the navy bore,
And sought through foamy seas the Cyprian shore;
Soft eastern gales prevailing thence, alone,
To Cato's camp and Libya waft them on.
With mournful looks from land (as oft we know
A sad prophetic spirit waits on woe),
Pompey, his brother and the fleet beheld,
Now near advancing o'er the watery field:
Straight to the beach with headlong haste he flies:
"Where is our father, Sextus, where? (he cries):
Do we yet live? Stands yet the sovereign state?
Or does the world with Pompey yield to fate?
Sink we at length before the conquering foe?
And is the mighty head of Rome laid low?"
He said; the mournful brother thus replied:
O happy thou! whom lands and seas divide
From woes which did to these sad eyes betide.
These eyes! which of their horror still complain,
Since they beheld our godlike father slain.
Nor did his fate an equal death afford,
Nor suffer'd him to fail by Caesar's sword.
Trusting in vain lo hospitable gods,
He died, oppress'd by vile Egyptian odds:
By the curs'd monarch of Nile's slimy wave
He fell, a victim to the crown he gave.
Yes! I beheld the dire, the bloody deed;
These eyes beheld our valiant father bleed:
Amaz'd I look'd, and scarce believ'd my fear,
Nor thought the' Egyptian could so greatly dare;
But still I look'd, and fancied Caesar there.
But oh! not all his wounds so much did move,
Pierc'd my sad soul, and struck my filial love,
As that his venerable head they bear,
Their wanton trophy, fix upon a spear;
Through every town 'tis shown, the vulgar's sport,
And the lewd laughter of the tyrant's court.
'Tis said, that Ptolemy preserves this prize,
Proof of the deed to glut the victor's eyes.
The body, whether rent or borne away
By foul Egyptian dogs, and birds of prey;
Whether within their greedy maws entomb'd,
Or by those wretched flames, we saw, consum'd
Its fate as yet we know not, but forgive:
That crime unpunish'd, to the gods we leave,
'Tis for the part preserv'd alone we grieve."
Scarce had he ended thus, when Pompey, warm
With noble fury, calls aloud to arm;
Nor seeks in sighs and helpless tears relief,
But thus in pious rage express'd his grief:
Hence all aboard, and haste to put to sea;
Urge on against the winds our adverse way
Witty me let every Roman leader go,
Since civil wars were ne'er so just as now.
Pompey's unburied relics ask your aid,
Call for due rites and honours to be paid.
Let Egypt's tyrant pour a purple flood,
And soothe the ghost with his inglorious blood.
Not Alexander shall his priests defend,
Forc'd from his golden shrine he shall descend:
Id Mareotis deep I'll plunge him down,
Deep in the sluggish waves the royal carcase drown.
From his proud pyramid Amasis torn,
With his long dynasties my rage shall mourn,
And floating down their muddy Nile, be borne.
Each stately tomb and monumental stone,
For thee, unburied Pompey, shall atone:
Isis no more shall draw the cheated crowd,
Nor god Osiris in his linen shrowd;
Strip'd of their shrines, with scorn they shall be cast,
To be by ignominious hands defac'd:
Their holy Apis, of diviner breed,
To Pompey's dust a sacrifice shall bleed,
While burning deities the flame shall feed.
Waste shall the land be laid, and never know
The tiller's care, nor feel the crooked plow:
None shall be left for whom the Nile may flow
Till the gods banish'd, and the people gone,
Egypt to Pompey shall be left alone."
He said; then hasty to revenge he flew,
And seaward out the ready navy drew:
But cooler Cato did the youth asswage,
And, praising much, compress'd his filial rage.
Meantime the shores, the seas, and skies around,
With mournful cries for Pompey's death resound.
A rare example have their sorrows shown,
(Yet in no age beside, nor people known,)
How falling power did with compassion meet.
And crowds deplor'd the ruins of the great.
But when the sad Cornelia first appear'd,
When on the deck her mournful head she rear'd.
Her locks hung rudely o'er the matron's face,
With all the pomp of grief's disorder'd grace:
When they beheld her, wasted quite with woe,
And spent with tears, that never ceas'd to flow,
Again they feel their loss, again complain,
And heaven and earth ring with their cries again.
Soon as she landed on the friendly strand,
Her lord's last rites employ her pious hand:
To his dear shade she builds a funeral pile,
And decks it proud with many a noble spoil.
There shone his arms with antique gold inlaid,
There the rich robes which she herself had made,
Robes to imperial Jove jn triumph erst display'd:
The relics of his past victorious days,
Now this his latest trophy serve to raise,
And in one common flame together blaze.
Such was the weeping matron's pious care:
The soldiers, taught by her, their fires prepare;
To every valiant friend a pile they build,
That fell for Rome, in curs'd Pharsalia's field:
Stretch'd wide along the shores the flames extend,
And grateful to the wandering shades ascend.
So when Apulian hinds, with art, renew
The wintry pastures to their verdant hue,
That flowers may rise, and springing grass return
With spreading flames the wither'd fields they burn;
Garganus then and lofty Vultur blaze,
And draw the distant wandering swains to gaze:
Far are the glittering fires descried by night,
And gild the dusky skies around with light.
But, oh! not all the sorrows of the crowd
That spoke their free impatient thoughts aloud;
That tax'd the gods, as authors of their woe,
And charge 'em with neglect of things below:
Not all the marks of the wild people's love,
The hero's soul, like Cato's praise, could move.
Few were his words, but from an honest heart,
Where faction and where favour had no part,
But truth made up for passion and for art.
We've lost a Roman citizen, (he said)
One of the noblest of that name is dead;
Who, though not equal to our fathers found,
Nor by their strictest rules of justice bound,
Yet from his faults this benefit we draw,
He, for his country's good, transgress'd her law,
To keep a bold licentious age in awe.
Rome held her freedom still, though he was great;
He sway'd the Senate, but they rul'd the state.
When crowds were willing to have worn his chain,
He chose his private station to retain,
That all might free, and equal all remain.
War's boundless power he never sought to use,
Nor ask'd, but what the people might refuse:
Much he possess'd, and wealthy was his store,
Yet still he gather'd but to give the more;
And Rome, while he was rich, could ne'er be poor.
He drew the sword, but knew its rage to charm;
And lov'd peace best, when he was forc'd to arm;
Unmov'd with all the glittering pomp of pow'r.
He took with joy, but laid it down with more:
His chaster household and his frugal board,
Nor lewdness did, nor luxury afford,?
Ev'n in the highest fortunes of their lord.
His noble name, his country's honour grown,
Was venerable round the nations known,
And as Rome's fairest light and brightest glory shone,
When betwixt Marius and fierce Sylla toss'd,
The commonwealth her ancient freedom lost,
Some shadow yet was left, some show of pow'r;
Now ev'n the name with Pompey is no more:
Senate and people all at once are gone,
Nor need the tyrant blush to mount the throne.
Oh happy Pompey! happy in thy fate,
Happy by falling with the falling state,
Thy death a benefit the gods did grant,
Thou might'st have liv'd those Pharian swords to want.
Freedom, at least, thou dost by dying gain,
Nor liv'st to see thy Julia's father reign;
Free death is man's first bliss, the next is to be slain.
Such mercy only I from Juba crave,
(If fortune should ordain me Juba's slave)
To Caesar let him show, but show me dead;
And keep my carcase, so he takes my head."
He said, and pleas'd the noble shade below,
More than a thousand orators could do;
Though Tully too had lent his charming tongue,
And Rome's full Forum with his praise had rung.
But discord new infects the sullen crowd,
And now they tell their discontents aloud:
When Tarchon first his flying ensigns bore,
Call'd out to march, and hasten'd to the shore:
Him Cato thus, pursuing as he mov'd,
Sternly bespoke, and justly thus reprov'd.
"Oh, restless author of the roving war,
Dost thou again piratic arms prepare?
Pompey, thy terror and thy scourge, is gone,
And now thou hop'st to rule the seas alone."
He said, and bent his frown upon the rest;
Of whom one bolder thus the chief address'd,
And thus their weariness of war confess'd.
"For Pompey 's sake (nor thou disdain to hear)
The civil war we wage, these arms we bear:
Him we prefer'd to peace. But (Cato) now,
That cause, that master of our arms lies low.
Let us no more our absent country mourn,
But to our homes and household-gods return;
To the chaste arms from whose embrace we fled,
And the dear pledges of the nuptial bed.
For oh! what period can the war attend,
Which nor Pharsalia's field nor Pompey's death can end?
The better times of flying life are pass'd,
Let death come gently on, in peace, at last.
Let age, at length, with providential care
The necessary pile and urn prepare;
All rites the cruel civil war denies.
Part ev'n of Pompey yet unburied lies.
Though vanquish'd, yet by no barbarian hand,
We fear not exile in a foreign land,
Nor are our necks by fortune now bespoke.
To bear the Scythian or Armenian yoke;
The victor still a citizen we own,
And yield obedience to the Roman gown.
While Pompey liv'd, he bore the sovereign sway;
Caesar was next, and him we now obey:
With reverence be the sacred shade ador'd,
But war has given us now another lord:
To Caesar and superior chance we yield;
All was determin'd in Emathia's field.
Nor shall our arms on other leaders wait,
Nor for uncertain hopes molest the state;?
W e follow'd Pompey once, but now we follow fate.
What terms, what safety can we hope for now,
But what the victor's mercy shall allow?
Once Pompey's presence justified the cause,
Then fought we for our liberties and laws;
With him the honours of that cause lie dead,
And all the sanctity of w ar is fled.
If, Cato, thou for Rome these arms dost bear,
If still thy country only be thy care,
Seek we the legions where Rome's ensigns fly.
Where her proud eagles wave their wings on high;
No matter who to Pompey's power succeeds,
We follow where a Roman consul leads."
This said, he leap'd aboard; the youthful sort
Join in his flight, and haste to leave the port;
The senseless crowd their liberty disdain,
And long to wear victorious Caesar's chain.
Tyrannic power now sadden seem'd to threat
The ancient glories of Rome's free-born state,
Till Cato spoke; and thus defer'd her fate.
"Did then your vows and servile prayers conspire
Nought but a haughty master to desire?
Did you, when eager for the battle, come
The slaves of Pompey, not the friends of Rome?
Now, weary of the toil, from war you fly,
And idly lay your useless armour by;
Your hands neglect to wield the shining sword,
Nor can you fight, but for a king and lord.
Some mighty chief you want, for whom to sweat;!
Yourselves you know not, or at least forget,
And fondly bleed, that others may be great:
Meanly you toil, to give yourselves away;
And die, to leave the world a tyrant's prey.
The gods and fortune do, at length, afford
A cause most worthy of a Roman sword.
At length, 'tis safe to conquer. Pompey now
Cannot, by your success, too potent grow:
Yet now, ignobly, you withhold your hands,
When nearer liberty your aid demands.
Of three who durst the sovereign power invade,
Two by your fortune's kinder doom lie dead;
And shall the Pharian sword and Parthian bow
Do more for liberty and Rome than you?
Base as ye are, in vile subjection go,
And scorn what Ptolemy did ill bestow.
Ignobly innocent, and meanly good,
You durst not stain your hardy hands in blood:
Feebly awhile you fought, but soon did yield.
And fled the first from dire Pharsalia's field.
Go then, secure, for Caesar will be good,
Will pardon those who are with ease subdued;
The pitying victor will in mercy spare,
The wretch who never durst provoke his war.
Go, sordid slaves! one lordly master gone,
Like heir-looms go, from father to the son.
Still to enhance your servile merit more,
Bear sad Cornelia weeping from the shore;
Meanly for hire expose the matron's life,
Metellus' daughter sell, and Pompey's wife.
Take too his sons: let Caesar find in you
Wretches that may ev'n Ptolemy outdo.
But let not my devoted life he spar'd,
The tyrant greatly shall that deed reward:
Such is the price of Cato's hated head,
That all your former wars shall well be paid:
Kill me, and in my blood do Caesar right;
'Tis mean to have no other guilt but flight."
He said, and slop'd the flying naval pow'r:
Back they return'd, repenting, to the shore.
As when the bees their waxen town forsake,
Careless in air their wandering way they take,
No more in clustering swarms condens'd they fly,
But fleet uncertain through the various sky;
No more from flowers they suck the liquid sweet.
But all their care and industry forget:
Then if at length the tinkling brass they hear,
With swift amaze their flight they soon forbear;
Sudden their flowery labours they renew,
Hang on the thyme, and sip the balmy dew:
Meantime, secure on Hybla's fragrant plain,
With joy exults the happy shepherd-swain;
Proud that his art had thus preserv'd his store,
He scorns to think his homely cottage poor.
With such prevailing force did Cato's care
The fierce impatient soldiers' minds prepare,
To learn obedience, and endure the war.
And now their minds, unknowing of repose,
With busy toil to exercise lie chose;
Still with successive labours are they plied,
And oft in long and weary marches tried.
Before Cyrene's walls they now sit down;
And here the victor's mercy well was shown,
He takes no vengeance of the captive town:
Patient he spares, and bids the vanquish'd live.
Since Cato, who could conquer, could forgive.
Hence, Libyan Juba's realms they mean to explore,
Juba, who borders on the swarthy Moor;
But nature's boundaries the journey stay,
The Syrts are fix'd athwart the middle way;
Yet led by daring virtue on they press,
Scorn opposition, and still hope success.
When nature's hand the first formation tried.
When seas from lands she did at first divide,
The Syrts, not quite of sea nor land bereft,
A mingled mass uncertain still she left;
For nor the land with seas is quite o'erspread,
Nor sink the waters deep their oozy bed,
Nor earth defends its shore, nor lifts aloft its head.
The site with neither, and with each complies,
Doubtful and inaccessible it lies;
Or 'tis a sea with shallows bank'd around,
Or 'tis a broken land with waters drown'd;
Here shores advanc'd o'er Neptune's rule we find.
And there an inland ocean lags behind.
Thus nature's purpose by herself destroy'd,
Is useless to herself and unemploy'd;
And part of her creation still is void.
Perhaps, when first the world and time began.
Her swelling tides and plenteous waters ran;
But long confining on the burning zone,
The sinking seas have felt the neighbouring sun:
Still by degrees we see how they decay,
And scarce resist the thirsty god of day.
Perhaps, in distant ages, 'twill be found,
When future suns have run the burning round,
These Syrts shall all be dry and solid ground:
Small are the depths their scanty w aves retain,
And earth grows daily on the yielding main.
And now the loaden fleet with active oars
Divide the liquid plain; and leave the shores,
When cloudy skies a gathering storm presage,
And Auster from the south began to rage:
Full from the land the sounding tempest roars,
Repels the swelling surge, and sweeps the shores;
The wind pursues, drives on the rolling sand,
And gives new limits to the growing land.
'Spite of the seaman's toil the storm prevails;
In vain with skilful strength he hands the sails,
In vain the cordy cables bind them fast,
At once it rips and rends them from the mast;
At once the winds the fluttering canvass tear.
Then whirl and whisk it through the sportive air.
Some timely for the rising rage prepar'd,
Furl the loose sheet, and lash it to the yard:
In vain their care; sudden the furious blast
Snaps by the board, and bears away the mast:
Of tackling, sails, and masts, at once bereft,
The ship a naked helpless hull is left.
Forc'd round and round, she quits her purpos'd way,
And bounds uncertain o'er the swelling sea.
But happier some a steady course maintain,
Who stand far out, and keep the deeper main.
Their masts they cut, and driving with the tide.
Safe o'er the surge beneath the tempest ride.
In vain did, from the southern coast their foe,
All black with clouds, old stormy Auster blow;
Lowly secure amidst the waves they lay,
Old Ocean heav'd his back, and roll'd 'em on their way.
Some on the shallows strike, and doubtful stand,
Part beat by waves, part fix'd upon the sand.
Now' pent amidst the shoals the billows roar,
Dash on the banks, and scorn the new-made shore:
Now by the wind driven on in heaps they swell,
The stedfast banks both winds and waves repel:
Still with united force they rage in vain,!
The sandy piles their station fix'd maintain,?
And lift their heads secure amidst the watry plain
There 'scap'd from seas upon the faithless strand,
With weeping eyes the shipwreck'd seamen stand,
And, cast ashore, look vainly out for land.
Thus some were lost: but far the greater part,
Preserv'd from danger by the pilot's art,
Keep on their course, a happier fate partake,
And reach in safety the Tritonian lake.
These waters to the tuneful god are dear
Whose vocal shell the sea-green Nereids hear:
These Pallas loves, so tells reporting fame,
Here first from heaven to earth the goddess came,
(Heaven's neighbourhood the warmer clime betrays,
And speaks the nearer sun's immediate rays)
Here her first footsteps on the brink she staid,
Here in the watery glass her form survey'd,
And call'd herself from hence — the chaste Tritonian maid.
Here Lethe's streams from secret springs below
Rise to the light; here, heavily and slow,
The silent, dull, forgetful waters flow.
Here, by the wakeful dragon kept of old,
Hesperian plants grew rich with living gold;
Long since the fruit was from the branches torn,
And now the gardens their lost honours mourn.
Such was in ancient times the tale receiv'd,
Such by our good forefathers was believ'd:
Nor let inquirers the tradition wrong,
Or dare to question now the poet's sacred song.
Then take it for a truth, the wealthy wood
Here under golden boughs low bending stood;
On some large tree his folds the serpent wound,
The fair Hesperian virgins watch'd around,
And join'd to guard the rich forbidden ground.
But great Alcides came to end their care,
Strip'd the gay grove, and left the branches bare;
Then back returning sought the Argive shore,
And the bright spoil to proud Eurystheus bore.
These famous regions and the Syrts o'erpass'd,
They reach'd the Garamantian coast at last:
Here, under Pompey's care, the navy lies,
Beneath the gentlest clime of Libya's skies.
But Cato's soul, by dangers unrestrain'd,
Ease and a dull unactive life disdain'd.
His daring virtue urges to go on,
Through desert lands, and nations yet unknown;
To march, and prove the' unhospitable ground,
To shun the Syrts, and lead the soldier round.
Since now tempestuous seasons vex the sea,
And the declining year forbids the watery way;
He sees the cloudy drizzling winter near,
And hopes kind rains may cool the sultry air:
So happ'ly may they journey on secure.
Nor burning heats nor killing frosts endure;
But while cool winds the winter's breath supplies,
With gentle warmth the Libyan sun may rise,
And both may join and temper well the skies.
But ere the toilsome march he undertook,
The hero thus the listening host bespoke:
"Fellows in arms! whose bliss, whose chiefest good
Is Rome's defence, and freedom bought with blood;
You, who, to die with liberty, from far
Have follow'd Cato in this fatal war,
Be now for virtue's noblest task prepar'd,
For labours many, perilous and hard.
Think through what burning climes, what wilds we go,
No leafy shades the naked deserts know,
N or silver streams through flowery meadows flow.
But horrors there, and various deaths abound,
And serpents guard the' unhospitable ground.
Hard is the way; but thus our fate demands:
Rome and her laws we seek amidst these sands.
Let those who, glowing with their country's love,
Resolve with me these dreadful plains to prove,
Nor of return nor safety once debate,
But only dare to go, and leave the rest to fate.
Think not I mean the dangers to disguise,
Or hide 'em from the cheated vulgar's eyes:
Those, only those, shall in my fate partake,
Who love the daring for the danger's sake;
Those who can suffer all the worst can come,
And think it what they owe themselves and Rome.
If any yet shall doubt, or yet shall fear;
If life be, more than liberty, his care;
Here, ere we journey further, let him stay,
Inglorious let him, like a slave, obey;
And seek a master in some safer way.
Foremost, behold, I lead you to the toil,
My feet shall foremost print the dusty soil;
Strike me the first, thou flaming god of day,
First let me feel thy fierce, thy scorching ray:
Ye living poisons all, ye snaky train,
Meet me the first upon the fatal plain.
In every pain, which you my warriors fear,
Let me be first, and teach you how to bear.
Who sees me pant for drought, or fainting first,
Let him upbraid me, and complain of thirst.
If e'er for shelter to the shades I fly,
Me let him curse, me for the sultry sky.
If while the weary soldier marches on,
Your leader by distinguish'd ease be known,
Forsake my cause, and leave me there alone.
The sands, the serpents, thirst, and burning heat,
Are dear to patience, and to virtue sweet;
Virtue, that scorns on coward terms to please,
Or cheaply to be bought, or won with ease:
But then she joys, then smiles upon her state,
Then fairest to herself, then most complete,
When glorious danger makes her truly great.
So Libya's plains alone shall wipe away
The foul dishonours of Pharsalia's day;
So shall your courage now transcend that fear:
You fled with glory there, to conquer here."
He said; and hardy love of toil inspir'd;
And every breast with godlike ardour fir'd.
Straight, careless of return, without delay
Through the wide waste lie took his pathless way.
Libya, ordain'd to be his last retreat,
Receives the hero, fearless of his fate;
Here the good gods his last of labours doom,
Here shall his bones and sacred dust find room,
And his great head be hid within an humble tomb.
If this large globe e! e be portion'd right by fame,
Then one third part shall sandy Libya claim:
But if we count, as suns descend and rise,
If we divide by east and west the skies,
Then with fair Europe, Libya shall combine,
And both to make the western-half shall join:
Whilst wide-extended Asia fills the rest,
Of all from Tanais to Nile possess'd,
And reigns sole empress of the dawning east,
Of all the Libyan soil, the kindliest found
Far to the western seas extends its bound:
Where cooling gales, where gentle zephyrs fly,
And setting suns adorn the gaudy sky:
And yet ev'n here no liquid fountain s vein
Wells through the soil, and gurgles o'er the plain;
But from our northern clime, our gentler heav'n,
Refreshing dews and fruitful rains are driv'n:
All bleak, the god, cold Boreas spreads his wing,
And with our winter gives the Libyan spring.
No wicked wealth infects the simple soil,
Nor golden ores disclose their shining spoil:
Pure is the glebe, 'tis earth, and earth alone,
To guilty pride and avarice unknown:
There citron groves, the native riches, grow,
There cool retreats and fragrant shades bestow,
And hospitably screen their guests below.
Safe by their leafy office long they stood
A sacred, old, unviolated wood;
Till Roman luxury to Afric pass'd,
And foreign axes laid their honours waste,
Thus utmost lands are ransack'd, to afford
The far-fetch'd dainties, and the costly board
But rude and wasteful all those regions lie
That border on the Syrts, and feel too nigh
Their sultry summer sun, and parching sky.
No harvest there the scatter'd grain repays,
But withering dies, and ere it shoots decays:
There never loves to spring the mantling vine,
Nor wanton ringlets round her elm to twine:
The thirsty dust prevents the swelling fruit,
Drinks up the generous juice, and kills the root
Through secret veins no tempering moistures pass,
To bind with viscous force the mouldering mass;
But genial Jove averse disdains to smile,
Forgets, and curses the neglected soil.
Thence lazy nature droops her idle head,
As every vegetable sense were dead;
Thence the wide dreary plains one visage wear,
Alike in summer, winter, spring, appear;
Nor feel the turns of the revolving year.
Thin herbage here (for some ev'n here is found)
The Nasamonian hinds collect around;
A naked race, and barbarous of mind,
That live upon the losses of mankind:
The Syrts supply their wants and barren soil,
And strow the' unhospitable shores with spoil.
Trade they have none, but ready still they stand,
Rapacious to invade the wealthy strand;
And hold a commerce thus with every distant land.
Through this dire country Cato's journey lay,
Here he pursued while virtue led the way.
Here the bold youth, led by his high command
Fearless of storms and raging winds, by land
Repeat the dangers of the swelling main,
And strive with storms and raging winds again.
Here all at large, where nought restrains his force,
Impetuous Auster runs his rapid course;
Nor mountains here, nor stedfast rocks resist,
But free he sweeps along the spacious list.
No stable groves of ancient oaks arise,
To tire his rage, and catch him as he flies;
But wide, around, the naked plains appear,
Here fierce he drives unbounded through the air,
Roars and exerts his dreadful empire here.
The whirling dust, like waves in eddies wrought)
Rising aloft, to the mid Heaven is caught:
There hangs a sullen cloud; nor falls again,
Nor breaks, like gentle vapours, into rain.
Gazing, the poor inhabitant descries,
Where high above his land and cottage flies:
Bereft he sees his lost possessions there,
From earth transported, and now fix'd in air.
Not rising flames attempt a bolder flight;
Like smoke by rising flames uplifted, light
The sands ascend, and stain the Heavens with night.
But now his utmost power and rage to boast,
The stormy god invades the Roman host:
The soldier yields, unequal to the shock,
And staggers at the wind's stupendous stroke.
Amaz'd he sees that earth which lowly lay,
Forc'd from beneath his feet, and torn away.
Oh, Libya! were thy pliant surface bound,
And form'd a solid close compacted ground;
Or hadst thou rocks, whose hollows deep below
Would draw those raging winds that loosely blow
Their fury, by thy firmer mass oppos'd,.
Or in those dark infernal caves inclos'd,
Thy certain ruin would at once complete,
Shake thy foundations, and unfix thy seat.
But well thy flitting plains have learn'd to yield;
Thus, not contending, thou thy place hast held;
Unfix'd, art fix'd; and, flying, keep'st the field.
Helms, spears, and shields, snatch'd from the warlike host,
Through Heav'n's wide regions far away were toss'd;
While distant nations, with, religious fear,
Beheld them as some prodigy in air,
And thought the gods by them denounc'd a war.
Such haply was the chance, which first did raise
The pious tale in priestly Numa's days:
Such were those shields, and thus they came from Heaven,
A sacred charge to young Patricians giv'n:
Perhaps, long since, to lawless winds a prey,
From far barbarians were they forc'd away;
Thence through long airy journeys safe did come,
To cheat the crowd with miracles at Rome.
Thus wide o'er Libya rag'd the stormy south,
Thus every way assail'd the Latian youth:
Each several method for defence they try,
Now wrap their garments tight, now close they lie
Now sinking to the earth, with weight they press,
Now clasp it to them with a strong embrace.
Scarce in that posture safe; the driving blast
Bears hard, and almost heaves them off at last.
Meantime a sandy flood comes rolling on,
And swelling heaps the prostrate legions drown:
New to the sudden danger, and dismay'd,
The frighted soldier hasty calls for aid,
Heaves at the hill, and struggling rears his head.
Soon shoots the growing pile, and, rear'd on high,
Lifts up its lofty summit to the sky:
High sandy walls, like forts, their passage stay,
And rising mountains intercept their way:
The certain bounds which should their journey! guide,
The moving earth and dusty deluge hide e
So land-marks sink beneath the flowing tide.
As through mid seas uncertainly they move,
Led only by Jove's sacred lights above:
Part ev'n of them the Libyan clime denies,
Forbids their native northern stars to rise,
And shades the well-known lustre from their eyes.
Now near approaching to the burning zone,
To warmer, calmer skies, they journey'd on.
The slackening storms the neighbouring sun confess,
The heat strikes fiercer, and the winds grow less;
Whilst parching thirst and fainting sweats increase.
As forward on the weary way they went,
Panting with drought, and all with labour spent.
Amidst the desert, desolate and dry,
One chanc'd a little trickling spring to spy:
Proud of the prize, he drain'd the scanty store,
And in his helmet to the chieftain bore.
Around in crowds the thirsty legions stood,
Their throats and clammy jaws with dust bestrew'd,
And all with wishful eyes the liquid treasure view'd.
Around the leader cast his careful look,
Sternly the tempting envied gift he took,
Held it, and thus the giver fierce bespoke:
"And think'st thou then, that I want virtue most?
Am I the meanest of this Roman host?
Am I the first soft coward that complains?
That shrinks unequal to these glorious pains?
Am I in ease and infamy the first?
Rather be thou, base as thou art, accurs'd!
Thou that dar'st drink, when all beside thee thirst."
He said; and wrathful stretching forth his hand,
Pour'd out the precious draught upon the sand.
Well did the water thus for all provide,
Envied by none, while thus to all denied,
A little thus the general want supplied.
Now to the sacred temple they draw near,
Whose only altars Libyan lands revere:
There, but unlike the Jove by Rome ador'd,
A form uncouth, stands Heaven's Almighty Lord.
No regal ensigns grace his potent band,
Nor shakes he there the lightning's flaming brand;
But, ruder to behold, a horned ram
Belies the god, and Ammon is his name.
There though he reigns unrival'd and alone.
O'er the rich neighbours of the torrid zone;
Though swarthy Ethiops are to him confin'd,
With Araby the bless'd, and wealthy Inde;
Yet no proud domes are rais'd, no gems are seen,
To blaze upon his shrines with costly sheen;
But plain, and poor, and unprofan'd he stood,
Such as to whom our great forefathers bow'd:
A god of pious times, and days of old,
That keeps his temple safe from Roman gold.
'Here, and here only, through wide Libya's space,
Tall trees the land and verdant herbage grace:
Here the loose sands by plenteous springs are bound,
Knit to a mass, and moulded into ground:
Here smiling nature wears a fertile dress,
And all things here the present god confess.
Yet here the sun to neither pole declines,
But from his zenith vertically shines:
Hence ev'n the trees no friendly shelter yield,
Scarce their own trunks the leafy branches shield;
The rays descend direct, all round embrace,
And to a central point the shadow chase.
Here equally the middle line is found,
To cut the radiant zodiac in its round:
Here unoblique the Bull and Scorpion rise,
Nor mount too swift, nor leave too soon the skies;
Nor Libra does too long the Ram attend,
Nor bids the Maid the fishy sign descend.
The Boys and Centaur justly time divide,
And equally their several seasons guide:
Alike the Crab and wintry Goat return,
Alike the Lion and the flowing Urn.
If any further nations yet are known,
Beyond the Libyan fires, and scorching zone;
Northward from them the sun's blight course is made,
And to the southward strikes the leaning shade:
There slow Bootes, with his lazy wain
Descending, seems to reach the watery main.
Of all the lights which high above they see,
No star whate'er from Neptune's waves is free,
The whirling axle drives 'em round, and plunges in the sea.
Before the temple's entrance at the gate,
Attending crowds of eastern pilgrims wait:
These from the horned god expect relief;
But all give way before the Latian chief.
His host (as crowds are superstitious still)!
Curious of fate, of future good and ill,
And fond to prove prophetic Ammon's skill,
Intreat their leader to the god would go,
And from his oracle Rome's fortunes know:
But Labienus chief the thought approv'd,
And thus the common suit to Cato mov'd.
Chance, and the fortune of the way, (he said)
Have brought Jove's sacred counsels to our aid:
This greatest of the gods, this mighty chief,
In each distress shall be a sure relief;
Shall point the distant dangers from afar,
And teach the future fortunes of the war.
To thee, O Cato! pious! wise! and just!
Their dark decrees the cautious gods shall trust;
To thee their fore-determin'd will shall tell:
Their will has been thy law, and thou hast kept it well.
Fate bids thee now the noble thought improve;
Fate brings thee here, to meet and talk with Jove.
Inquire betimes, what various chance shall come
To impious Caesar, and thy native R ime; r'
Try to avert, at least, thy country's doom.
Ask, if these arms our freedom shall restore?
Or else, if laws and right shall be no more?
Be thy great breast with sacred knowledge fraught,
To lead us in the wandering maze of thought:
Thou that to virtue ever wert inclin'd,
Learn what it is, how certainly defin'd,
And leave some perfect rule to guide mankind."
Foil of the god that dwelt within his breast,
The hero thus his secret mind express'd:
And in-born truths reveal'd: truths which might well
Become ev'n oracles themselves to tell.
"Where would thy fond, thy vain inquiry go?
What mystic fate, what secret wouldst thou know?
Is it a doubt if death should be my doom,
Rather than live till kings and bondage come,
Rather than see a tyrant crown'd in Rome?
Or wouldst thou know if, what we value here,
Life, be a trifle hardly worth our care?
What by old age and length of days we gain,
More than to lengthen out the sense of pain?
Or if this world, with all its forces join'd,
The universal malice of mankind,
Can shake or hurt the brave and honest mind?
If stable virtue can her ground maintain,
"While fortune feebly threats and frowns in vain?
If truth and justice with uprightness dwell,
Ami honesty consist in meaning well?
If l ight be independent of success,
And conquest cannot make it more nor less?
Are these, my friend, the secrets thou wouldst know
Those doubts for which to oracles we go?
Tis known, 'tis plain, 'tis all already told;
And horned Ammon can no more unfold.
From God deriv'd, to God by nature join'd,
We act the dictates of his mighty mind:
And though the priests are mute, and temples still,
God never wants a voice to speak his will.
When first we from the teeming womb were brought,
With in-born precepts then our souls were fraught,
And then the Maker his new creatures taught.
Then when he form'd, and gave us to be men,
He gave us all our useful knowledge, then
Canst thou believe the vast eternal mind
Was ere to Syrts and Libyan sands confin'd?
That he would choose this waste, this barren! ground,
To teach the thin inhabitants around;
And leave his truth, in wilds and deserts drown'd?
Is there a place that God would choose to love
Beyond this earth, the seas, yon Heaven above;
And virtuous minds — the noblest throne for Jove?
Why seek we further then? — Behold around,
How all thou seest does with the god abound;
Jove is alike in all, and always to be found.
Let those weak minds who live in doubt and fear,
To juggling priests for oracles repair:
One certain hour of death to each decreed,
My fix'd, my certain soul, from doubt has freed.
The coward and the brave are doom'd to fall
And when Jove told this truth, he told us all."
So spoke the hero; and, to keep his word,
Nor Ammon, nor his oracle explor'd;
But left the crowd at freedom to believe,
And take such answers as the priest should give.
Foremost on foot he treads the burning sand,
Bearing his arms in his own patient hand;
Scorning another's weary neck to press,
Or in a lazy chariot loll at ease:
The panting soldier at his toil succeeds,
Where no command, but great example leads.
Sparing of sleep, still for the rest he wakes,
And at the fountain, last, his thirst he slakes:
Whene'er by chance some living stream is found,
He stands and sees the cooling draughts go round;
Stays till the last and meanest drudge be past,
And, till his slaves have drunk, disdains to taste.
If true good men deserve immortal fame.
If virtue, though distress'd, be still the same;
Whate'er our fathers greatly dar'd to do,
Whate'er they bravely bore, and wisely knew,
Their virtues all are his, and all their praise his due.
Who e'er with battles fortunately fought,
Who e'er with Roman blood such honours brought?
This triumph, this, on Libya's utmost bound,.
With death and desolation compass'd round,
To all thy glories, Pompey, I prefer,
Thy trophies, and thy third triumphal car,
To Marius' mighty name, and great Jugurthine war.
His country's father here, O Rome, behold,
Worthy thy temples, priests, and shrines of gold!
If e'er thou break thy lordly master's chain,
If liberty be e'er restor'd again;
Him shalt thou place in thy divine abodes,
Swear by his holy name, and rank him with thy gods.
Now to those sultry regions were they pass'd,
Which Jove to stop inquiring mortals plac'd,
And as their utmost southern limits cast.
Thirsty, for springs they search the desert round,
And only one, amidst the sands, they found.
Well stor'd it was, but all access was barr'd;
The stream ten thousand noxious serpents guard:
Dry asps on the fatal margin stood,
And dipsas thirsted in the middle flood.
Back from the stream the frighted soldier flies,
Though parch'd, and languishing for drink, he dies:
The chief beheld, and said, "You fear, in vain,
Vainly from safe and healthy draughts abstain,
My soldier, drink; and dread not death or pain.
When urg'd to rage, their teeth the serpents fix,
And venom with our vital juices mix;
The pest infus'd through every vein runs round,
Infects the mass, and death is in the wound.
Harmless and safe, no poison here they shed."
He said; and first the doubtful draught essay'd;
He, who through all their march, their toil, their thirst.
Demanded here alone to drink the first.
Why plagues like these infect the Libyan air,
Why deaths unknown in various shapes appear;
Why, fruitful to destroy the cursed land,
Is temper'd thus by nature's secret hand;
Dark and obscure the hidden cause remains,
And still deludes the vain inquirer's pains;
Unless a tale for truth may be believ'd,
And the good-natur'd world be willingly deceiv'd.
Where western waves on furthest Libya beat,
Warm'd with the setting sun's descending heat,
Dreadful Medusa fix'd her horrid seat
No leafy shade with kind protection shields
The rough, the squalid, unfrequented fields;
No mark of shepherds, or the ploughman's toil,
To tend the flocks, or turn the mellow soil:
But rude with rocks, the region all around
Its mistress and her potent visage own'd.
'Twas from this monster, to afflict mankind,
That nature first produc'd the snaky kind:
On her at first their forky tongues appear'd;
From her their dreadful hissings first were heard.
Some wreath'd in folds upon her temples hung;
Some backwards to her waste depended long;
Some with their rising crests her forehead deck;
Some wanton play, and lash her swelling neck:
And while her hands the curling vipers comb,
Poisons distil around, and drops of livid foam.
None who beheld the fury could complain;
So swift their fate, preventing death and pain:
Ere they had time to fear the change came on,
And motion, sense, and life, were lost in stone.
The soul itself, from sudden flight debar'd,
Congealing, in the body's fortune shar'd.
The dire Eumenides could rage inspire.
But could no more: the tuneful Thracian lyre
Infernal Cerberus did soon assuage,
Lull'd him to rest, and sooth'd his triple, rage
Hydra's seven heads the bold Alcides view'd.
Safely he saw, and what he saw subdued:
Of these in various terrors each excell'd;
But all this superior fury yield
Phorcus and Ceto, next to Neptune he,
Immortal both, and rulers of the sea,
This monster's parents did their offspring dread;
And from her sight her sister gorgons fled,
Old ocean's waters, and the liquid air,
The universal world her power might fear:
All nature's beauteous works she could invade,
Through every part a lazy numbness shed,
And over all a stony surface spread.
Birds in their flight were stop'd, and pondrous
Forgot their pinions, and fell senseless down, grown.
Beasts to the rocks were fix'd, and all around
Were tribes of stone and marble nations found
No living eyes so fell a sight could bear;
Her snakes themselves, all deadly though they were,
Shot backward from her face, and shrunk away k for fear.
By her a rock, Titanian Atlas, grew,
And heaven by her the giants did subdue:
Hard was the fight, and Jove was half dismay'd,
Till Pallas brought the gorgon to his aid:
The heavenly nation laid aside their fear,
For soon she finish'd the prodigious war
To mountains turn'd the monster race remains,
The trophies of her power on the Phlegraean plains.
To seek this monster, and her fate to prove,
The son of Danae and golden Jove,
Attempts a flight through airy ways above.
The youth Cyllenian Hermes' aid implor'd;
The god assisted with his wings and sword;
His sword, which late made watchful Argus bleed,
And lb from her cruel keeper freed:
Unwedded Pallas lent a sister's aid;
But ask'd for recompense Medusa's head.
Eastward, she warns her brother bend his flight,
And from the Gorgon realms avert his sight;
Then arms his left with her refulgent shield,
And shows how there the foe might be beheld.
Deep slumbers had the drowsy fiend possess'd,
Such as drew on and well might seem her last:
And yet she slept not whole; one half her snakes,
Watchful to guard their horrid mistress, wakes,
The rest dishevel'd loosely round her head.
And o'er her drowsy lids and face were spread.
Backward the youth draws near, nor dares to look,
But blindly, at a venture, aims a stroke:
His faltering hand the virgin-goddess guides,
And from the monster's neck her snaky head divides.
But oh! what art, what numbers can express
The terrors of the dying Gorgon's face!
What clouds of poison from her lips arise!
What death, what vast destruction threaten'd in her eyes!
'Twas somewhat that immortal gods might fear;
More than the warlike maid herself could bear.
The victor Perseus still had been subdued,
Though wary still, with eyes averse he stood;
Had not his heavenly sister's timely care
Veil'd the dread visage with the hissing hair.
Seis'd of his prey, heavenwards, uplifted light,
On Hermes' nimble wings he took his flight.
Now thoughtful of his course, he hung in air,
And meant through Europe's happy clime to steer;
Till pitying Pallas warn'd him not to blast
Her fruitful fields, nor lay her cities waste.
For who would not have upwards cast their sight,
Curious to gaze at such a wondrous flight?
Therefore, by gales of gentle zephyrs borne,
To Libya's coast the hero minds to turn.
Beneath the sultry line, expos'd it lies.
To deadly planets and malignant skies.
Still with his fiery steeds the god of day
Drives through that heaven and makes his burning way.
No land more high erects its lofty head,
The silver moon in dun eclipse to shade;
If through the summer-signs direct she run,
Nor bends obliquely, north or south, to shun
The envious earth that hides her from the sun.
Yet could this soil accurs'd, this barren field,
Increase of deaths and poisonous harvests yield,
Where'er sublime in air the victor flew,
The monster's head distill'd a deadly dew;
The earth receiv'd the seed, and pregnant grew.
SHU as the putrid gore drop'd on the sand,
'Twas temper'd Up by nature's forming hand;
The glowing climate makes the work complete,
And broods upon the mass, and lends it genial heat.
First of those plagues, the drowsy Asp appear'd,
Then first her crest and swelling neck she rear'd;
A larger drop) of black congealing blood
Distinguish'd her amidst the deadly brood.
Of all the serpent race are none so fell,
None with so many deaths, such plenteous venom swell;
Chill in themselves, our colder climes they shun,
And chuse to bask in Afric's warmer sun;
But Nile no more confines them now. What bound
Can for insatiate avarice be found t
Freighted with Libyan deaths our merchants come.
And poisonous Asps are things of price at Rome;.
Her scaly folds the' Haemorrhois unbends,
And her vast length along the sands extends:
Where'er she wounds, from every part the blood
Gushes resistless in a crimson flood.
Amphibious some do in the Syrts abound,
And now on land, in waters now are found.
Slimy Chelydri the parch'd earth distain,
And trace a reeking furrow on the plain.
The spotted Cenchris, rich in various dyes,
Shoots in a line, and forth directly flies;
Not Theban marbles are so gaily dress'd,
Nor with such party-colour'd beauties grac'd.
Safe in his earthly hue and dusky skin.
The' Ammodytes lurks in the sands unseen;
The Swimmer there the crystal stream pollutes,
And swift through air the flying Javelin shoots.
The Scytale, ere yet the spring returns,
There casts her coat, and there the Dipsas burns;
The Amphisbaena doubly arm'd appears,
At either end a threatening head she rears.
Rais'd on his active tail the Pareas stands,
And, as he passes, furrows up the sands.
The Prester by his foaming jaws is known j
The Seps invades the flesh and firmer bone,
Dissolves the mass of man, and melts his fabric down.
The Basilisk, with dreadful hissings heard,
And from afar by every serpent fear'd,
To distance drives the vulgar, and remains
The lonely monarch of the desert plains.
And you, ye Dragons! of the scaly race,
Whom glittering gold and shining armours grace,
In other nations harmless are you found.
This guardian genii and protectors own'd:
In Afric only are you fatal; there,
On wide-expanded wings, sublime you rear
Your dreadful forms, and drive the yielding air.
The lowing kine in droves you chase, and cull
Some master of the herd, some mighty bull;
Around his stubborn sides your tails you twist,
By force compress, and burst his brawny chest.
Not elephants are by their larger size
Secure, but with the rest become your prize.
Resistless in your might, you all invade;
And for destruction need not poison's aid.
Thus, through a thousand plagues around them spread,
A weary march the hardy soldiers tread,
Through thirst, through toil and death, by Cato led.
Their chief, with pious grief and deep regret,
Each moment mourns his friends' untimely fate;
Wondering, he sees some small, some trivial wound,
Extend a valiant Roman on the ground.
Aulus, a noble youth of Tyrrhene blood,
Who bore the standard, on a Dipsas trode;
Backward the wrathful serpent bent her head.
And, fell with rage, the' unheeded wrong repaid.
Scarce did some little mark of hurt remain,
And scarce he found some little sense of pain;
Nor could he yet the danger doubt, nor fear
That death with all its terrors threaten'd there.
When lo! unseen, the secret venom spreads,
And every nobler part at once invades;
Swift flames consume the marrow and the brain,
And the scorch'd entrails rage with burning pain
Upon his heart the thirsty poisons prey,
And drain the sacred juice of life away.
No kindly floods of moisture bathe his tongue,
But cleaving to the parched roof it hung;
No trickling drops distil, no dewy sweat,
To ease his weary limbs, and cool the raging heat.
Nor could he weep; ev'n grief could not supply
Streams for the mournful office of his eye;
The never-failing source of tears was dry.
Frantic he flies, and with a careless hand mand.
Hurls the neglected eagle on the sand;
Nor hears, nor minds, his pitying chief's command,
For springs he seeks, he digs, he proves the ground;
For springs in vain explores the desert round;
For cooling draughts, which might their aid impart,
And quench the burning venom in his heart.
Plung'd in the Tanais, the Rhine, or Po,
Or Nile, whose wandering streams o'er Egypt flow,
Still would he rage, still with the fever glow: jf
The scorching climate to his fate conspires,
And Libya's sun assists the Dipsas' fires.
Now everywhere for drink in vain he pries,
Now to the Syrts and briny seas he flies;
The briny seas delight, but seem not to suffice.
Nor yet he knows what secret plague he nurs'd,
Nor found the poison, but believ'd it thirst:
Of thirst, and thirst alone, he still complains,
Raving for thirst, he tears his Swelling veins;
From every vessel drains a crimson flood,
And quaffs in greedy draughts his vital blood.
This Cato saw, and straight, Without deb,
(Commands the legions on to urge their way';
Nor give the' inquiring soldier time to know
What deadly deeds a fatal thirst could do.
But soon a fate more sad, with new surprise.
From the first object turns their wondering eyes.
Wretched Sabellus by a Seps was stung,
Fix'd to his leg with deadly teeth if hung
Sudden the soldier shook it from the wound,
Transfix'd and nail'd it for the barren ground.
Of fill the dire destructive serpent race,
None have so much of death, though none are less.
For straight around the part the skin withdrew,
The flesh and shrinking sinews backward flew,
And left the naked bones expos'd to view.
The spreading poisons all the parts confound,
And the whole body sinks within the wound.
The brawny thighs no more their muscles boast,
But, melting, all in liquid filth are lost;
The well-knit groin above, and ham below.
Mix'd in one putrid stream, together flow;
The firm peritonaeum rent in twain,
No more the pressing entrails could sustain;
It yields, and forth they fall; at once they gush amain.
Small relics of the mouldering mass were left,
At once of substance as of form bereft;
Dissolv'd the whole in liquid poison ran,
And to a nauseous puddle shrunk the man.
Then burst the rigid nerves, the manly breast,
And all the texture of the heaving chest;
Resistless way the conquering venom made,
And secret nature was at once display'd;
Her sacred privacies all open lie
To each profane, inquiring, vulgar eye.
Then the broad shoulders did the pest invade,
Then o'er the valiant arms and neck it spread;
Last sunk, the mind's imperial seat the head.
So snows dissolv'd by southern breezes run,
So melts the wax before the noon-day sun.
Nor ends the wonder here; though flames are known
To waste the flesh, yet still they spare the bone;
Here none were left, no least remains were seen;
No marks to show that once the man had been.
Of all the plagues which curse the Libyan land,
(If death and mischief may a crown demand)
Serpent, the palm is thine. Though others may
Boast of their power to force the soul away,
Yet soul and body both become thy prey.
A fate of different kind Nasidius found,
A burning Prester gave the deadly wound;
And straight a sudden flame began to spread,
And paint his visage with a glowing red.
With swift expansion swells the bloated skin,
Nought but an undistinguish'd mass is seen,
While the fair human form lies lost within;
The puffy poison spreads, and heaves around.
Till all the man is in the monster drown'd,
No more the steely plate his breast can stay,
But yields, and gives the bursting poison way.
Not waters so, when fire the rage supplies.
Bubbling on heaps, in boiling cauldrons rise:
Nor swells the stretching canvass half so fast,
When the sails gather all the driving blast,
Strain the tough yards, and bow the lofty mast.
The various parts no longer now are known,
One headless formless heap remains alone;
The feather'd kind avoid the fatal feast,
And leave it deadly to some hungry beast:
With horror seiz'd, his sad companions too,
In haste from the unburied carcase flew;.
Look'd back, but fled again, for still the monster grew.
But fertile Libya still new plagues supplies,
And to more horrid monsters turns their eyes.
Deeply the fierce Haemorrhois impress'd
Her fatal teeth on Tullus' valiant breast,
The noble youth, with virtue's love inspir'd,
Her, in her Cato, follow'd and admir'd;
Mov'd by his great example, vow'd to share
With him, each change of that disastrous war.
And as when mighty Rome's spectators meet
In the full theatre's capacious seat,
At once, by secret pipes and channels fed.
Rich tinctures gush from every antique head;
At once ten thousand saffron currents flow,
And rain their odours on the crowd below:
So the warm blood at once from every part
Ran purple poison down, and drain'd the fainting heart.
Blood falls for tears, and o'er his mournful face
The ruddy drops their tainted passage trace:
Where'er the liquid juices find a way,
There streams of blood, there crimson rivers stray
His mouth and gushing nostrils pour a flood,
And ev'n the pores ooze out the trickling blood
In the red deluge all the parts lie drown'd.
And the whole body seems one bleeding wound.
Laevus a colder Aspic bit, and straight
His blood forgot to flow, his heart to beat;
Thick shades! Upon his eye-lids seem'd to creep,
And lock him fast in everlasting sleep:
No sense of pain, no torment did he know,
But sunk in slumbers to the shades below
Not swifter deaths attend the noxious juice,
Which dire Sabaean Aconites produce.
Well may their crafty priests divine, and well
The fate which they themselves can cause, foretel.-
Fierce from afar a darting Javelin shot,
(For such the serpent's name has Afric taught)
And through unhappy Paulus' temples flew;
Not poison, but a wound, the soldier slew.
No flight so swift, so rapid none we know,
Stones from the sounding sling, compar'd, are slow,
And the shaft loiters from the Scythian bow.
A Basilisk bold Murrus kill'd in vain,
And nail'd it dying to the sandy plain;
Along the spear the sliding venom ran,
And, sudden, from the weapon, seiz'd the man.
His hand first touch'd, ere it his arm invade,
Soon he divides it with his shining blade:
The serpent's force by sad example taught,
With his lost hand his ransom'd life he bought.
Who that the Scorpion's insect-form surveys,
Would think that ready death his call obeys?
Threatening, he rears his knotty tail on high;
The vast Orion thus he doom'd to die,
And fix'd him, his proud trophy, in the sky.
Or could we the Salpuga's anger dread,
Or fear upon her little cell to tread?
Yet she the fatal threads of life commands.
And quickens oft the Stygian-sisters' hands.
Pursued by dangers, thus they pass'd away
The restless night, and thus the cheerless day;
Ev'n earth itself they fear'd, the common bed.
Where each lay down to rest his weary head.
There no kind trees their leafy couches strow,
The sands no turf nor mossy beds bestow;
But tir'd, and fainting with the tedious toil,
Expos'd they sleep upon the fatal soil.
With vital heat they brood upon the ground,
And breathe a kind attractive vapour round.
While chill, with colder night's ungentle air,
To man's warm breast his snaky foes repair,
And find, ungrateful guests, a shelter there:
Thence, fresh supplies of poisonous rage return,
And fiercely, with recruited deaths, they burn.
"Restore, (thus sadly oft the soldier said)
Restore Emathia's plains, from whence we fled
This grace at least, ye cruel gods, afford,
That we may fall beneath the hostile sword.
The Dipsas' here in Caesar's triumph share,
And fell Cerastae wage his civil war.
Or let us haste away, press further on,
Urge our bold passage to the burning zone,
And die by those ethereal flames alone.
Afric, thy deserts we accuse no more,
Nor blame, oh Nature! thy creating pow'r:
From man thou wisely didst these wilds divide,
And for thy monsters here alone provide;
A region waste, and void of all beside.
Thy prudent care forbade the barren field,
The yellow harvest's ripe increase to yield
Man and his labours well thou didst deny,
And hadst him from the land of poisons fly.
We, impious we, the bold irruption made;
We this, the serpent's world, did first invade;
Take then our lives a forfeit for the crime,
Whoe'er thou art that rul'st this cursed clime;
What god soe'er that lonely lov'st to reign,
And dost the commerce of mankind disdain;
Who, to secure thy horrid empire's bound,
Hast fix'd the Syrts, and torrid realms around;
Here the wild waves, there the flames' scorching breath,
And fill'd the dreadful middle space with dead).
Behold, to thy retreats our arms we bear,
And with Rome's civil rage profane thee here;
Ev'n to thy inmost seats we strive to go,
And seek the limits of the world to know.
Perhaps more dire events attend us yet
New deaths, new monsters, still we go to meet.
Perhaps to those far seas our journey bends,
Where to the waves the burning sun descends;
Where, rushing headlong down heav'n's azure steep,
All red he plunges in the hissing deep:
Low sinks the pole, declining from its height,
And seems to yield beneath the rapid weight.
Nor further lands from fame herself are known.
But Mauritanian Juba's realms alone.
Perhaps while, rashly daring, on we pass,
Fate may discover some more dreadful place;
Till, late repenting, we may wish in vain
To see these serpents and these sands again.
One joy at least do these sad regions give,
Ev'n here we know 'tis possible to live;
That, by the native plagues, we may perceive.
Nor ask we now for Asia's gentler day,
Nor now for European suns we pray;
Thee, Afric, now, thy absence we deplore,
And sadly think we ne'er shall see thee more.
Say, in what part, what climate art thou lost?
Where have we left Cyrene's happy frost?
Cold skies we felt, and frosty winter there,
While more than summer-suns are raging here,
And break the laws of the well-order d year.
Southward, beyond earth's limits, are we pass'd,
And Rome at length beneath our feet is plac'd.
Grant us, ye gods, one pleasure ere we die,
Add to our harder fate this only joy,
That Caesar may pursue, and follow where we fly."
Impatient, thus the soldier oft complains,
And seems by telling to relieve his pains.
But most the virtues of their matchless chief
Inspire new strength, to bear with every grief:
All night, with careful thoughts and watchful eyes,
On the bare sands expos'd the hero lies;
In every place alike, in every hour,
Dares his ill fortune, and defies her pow'r.
Unwearied still, his common care attends
On every fate, and cheers his dying friends:
With ready haste at each sad call he flies,
And more than health, or life itself, supplies;
With virtue's noblest precepts arms their souls,
And ev'n their sorrows, like his own, controls.
Where'er he comes, no signs of grief are shown;!
Grief, an unmanly weakness, they disown,?
And scorn to sigh, or breathe one parting groan.
Still urging on his pious cares, he strove
The sense of outward evils to remove
And, by his presence, taught them to disdain
The feeble rage and impotence of pain.
But now, so many toils and dangers pass'd,
Fortune grew kind, and brought relief at last.
Of all who scorching Afric's sun endure,
None like the swarthy Psyllians are secure.
Skill'd in the lore of powerful herbs and charms,
Them, nor the serpent's tooth nor poison harms:
Nor do they thus in arts alone excel,
But nature too their blood has temper'd well,
And taught with vital force the venom to repel.
With healing gifts and privileges grac'd,
Well in the land of serpents were they plac'd;
Truce with the dreadful tyrant, Death, they have.
And border safely on his realm, the grave.
Such is their confidence in true-born blood.
That oft with asps they prove their doubtful brood:
When wanton wives their jealous rage inflame,
The new-born infant clears or damns the dame;
It subject to the wrathful serpent's wound,
The mother s shame is by the danger found
But if, unhurt, the fearless infant laugh;
The wife is honest, and the husband safe.
So when Jove's bird on some tall cedar's head
Has a new race of generous eaglets bred,
While yet unplum'd within the nest they lie,
Wary she turns them to the eastern sky:
Then, if unequal to the god of day,
Abash'd they shrink, and shun the potent ray,
She spurns 'em forth, and casts 'em quite away:
Bat if with daring eyes unmov'd they gaze.
Withstand the light, and bear the golden blaze;
Tender she broods them with a parent's love,
The future servants of her master Jove.
Nor safe themselves alone the Psyllians are,
But to their guests extend their friendly care.
First, where the Roman camp is mark'd, around
Circling they pass; then chanting, charm the ground, (
And chase the serpents with the mystic sound.
Beyond the furthest tents rich fires they build,
That healthy medicinal odours yield:
There foreign Galbanum dissolving fries,
And crackling flames from humble Wall-wort rise
There Tamarisk, which no green leaf adorns,
And there the spicy Syrian Costus burns:
There Centaury supplies the wholesome flam,
That from Thessalian Chiron takes its name;
The gummy Larch-tree, and the Thapsos there,
Wound-wort and Maiden-weed, perfume the air.
There the large branches, of the long-liv'd Hart,
With Southern-wood, their odours strong impart;
The monsters of the land, the serpents fell,
Fly far away, and shun the hostile smell.
Securely thus they pass the nights away;
And if they chance to meet a wound by day,
The Psyllian artists straight their skill display.
Then strived the Leach the power of charms to show,
And bravely combats with the deadly foe:
With spittle first he marks the part around,
And keeps the poison prisoner in the wound;
Then sudden he begins the magic song,
And rolls the numbers hasty o'er his tongue:
Swift he runs on; nor pauses once for breath,
To stop the progress of approaching death:
He fears the cure might suffer by delay,
And life be lost, but for a moment's stay.
Thus oft, though deep within the veins it lies,
By magic numbers chas'd, the mischief flies.
But if it hear too slow, if still it stay,
And scorn the potent charmer to obey:
With forceful lips he fastens on the wound,
Drains out, and spits the venom to the ground.
Thus by long use and oft experience taught,
He knows from whence his hurt the patient got;
He proves the part through which the poison pass'd,
And knows each various serpent by the taste.
The warriors thus reliev'd amidst their pains,
Held on their passage through the desert plains.
And now the silver empress of the night
Had lost, and twice regain'd her borrow'd light,
While Cato, wandering o'er the wasteful field.
Patient in all his labours, she beheld.
At length, condens'd in clods the sands appear,
And show a better soil and country near.
Now from afar thin tufts of trees arise,
And scattering cottages delight their eyes:
But when the soldier once beheld again
The raging lion shake his horrid mane,
What hopes of better lands his soul possess'd!
What joys he felt, to view the dreadful beast!
Leptis at last they reach'd, that nearest lay;
There free from storms, and the sun's parching ray,
At ease they pass'd the wintry year away,
When, sated with the joys which slaughters yield,
Retiring Caesar left Emathia's field;
His other cares laid by, he sought alone
To trace the footsteps of his flying son.
Led by the guidance of reporting fame,
First to the Thracian Hellespont he came.
Here young Leander perish'd in the flood,
And here the tower of mournful Hero stood:
Here with a narrow stream, the flowing tide,
Europe from wealthy Asia does divide.
From hence the curious victor passing o'er,
Admiring, sought the fam'd Sigaean shore.
There might he tombs of Grecian chiefs behold,
Renown'd in sacred verse by bards of old.
There the long rains of the walls appear'd,
Once by great Neptune and Apollo rear'd:
There stood old Troy, a venerable name;
For ever consecrate to deathless fame.
Now blasted mossy trunks with branches sere,
Brambles and weeds, a loathsome forest rear;
Where once, in palaces of regal state,
Old Priam and the Trojan princes sate:
Where temples once, on lofty columns borne,
Majestic did the wealthy town adorn,
All rude, all waste and desolate is laid,
And ev'n the ruin'd ruins are decay'd.
Here Caesar did each storied place survey,
Here saw the rock, where, Neptune to obey,
Hesione was bound the monster's prey.
Here, in the covert of a secret grove,
The bless'd Anchises clasp'd the queen of love:
Here fair Oenone play'd, here stood the cave
Where Paris once the fatal judgment gave;
Here lovely Ganymede to heaven was borne;
Each rock, and every tree, recording tales adorn.
Here all that does of Xanthus' stream remain,
Creeps a small brook along the dusty plain.
Whilst careless and securely on they pass,
The Phrygian guide forbids to press the grass:
This place (he said) for ever sacred keep,
For here the sacred bones of Hector sleep.
Then warns him to observe, where, rudely cast,
Disjointed stones lay broken and defac'd:
"Here his last fate (he cries) did Priam prove;
Here on this altar of Hercaean Jove
Oh, poesy divine! Oh, sacred song!
To thee bright fame and length of days belong.
Thou, goddess! thou eternity canst give,
And bid secure the mortal hero live.
Nor, Caesar thou disdain that I rehearse
Thee, and thy wars, in no ignoble verse;
Since, if in aught the Latian muse excel,
My name, and thine, immortal I foretel:
Eternity our labours shall reward
My numbers shall to latest times convey
The tyrant Caesar, and Pharsalia's day.
When long the chief his wondering eyes had cast
On ancient monuments of ages past;
Of living turf an altar straight lie made,
Then on the fire rich gums and incense laid,
And thus, successful in his vows, he pray'd:
"Ye shades divine! who keep this sacred place;
And thou, aeneas! author of my race;
Ye powers, whoe'er from burning Troy did come.
Domestic gods of Alba, and of Rome,
Who still preserve your ruin'd country's name.
And on your altars guard the Phrygian flame:
And thou, bright maid, who art to men denied-;
Pallas, who dost thy sacred pledge confide
To Rome, and in her inmost temple hide;
Hear, and auspicious to my vows incline,
To me, the greatest of the Julian line:
Prosper my future ways; and lo! I vow
Your ancient state and honours to bestow;
Ausonian hands shall Phrygian walls restore,
And Rome repay what Troy confer'd before."
He said; and hasted to his fleet away,
Swift to repair the loss of this delay.
Up sprung the wind, and with a freshening gale
The kind north-west fill'd every swelling sail;
Light o'er the foamy waves the navy flew,
Till Asia's shores, and Rhodes, no more they view.
Six times the night her sable round had made;
The seventh now passing on, the chief survey'd
High Pharos shining through the gloomy shade:
The coast descried, he waits the rising day,
Then safely to the port directs his way.
There wide with crowds o'erspread he sees the shore,
And echoing hears the loud tumultuous roar.
Distrustful of his fate, he gives command
To stand aloof, nor trust the doubted land
When lo! a messenger appears, to bring
A fatal pledge of peace from Egypt's king:
Hid in a veil, and closely cover'd o'er,
Pompey's pale visage in his hand he bore,
An impious orator the tyrant sends,
Who thus, with fitting words, the monstrous gift commends.
"Hail! first and greatest of the Roman nam;
In power most mighty, most renown'd in fame:
Hail! rightly now, the world's unrival'd lord!
That benefit thy Pharian friends afford
Iy king bestows the prize thy arms have sought,
For which Pharsalia's field, in vain, was fought.
No task remains for future labours now;
The civil wars are finish'd at a blow.
To heal Thessalia's ruins, Pompey fled
To us for succour, and by us lies dead.
Thee, Caesar, with this costly pledge we buy;
Thee to our friendship, with this victim, tie.
Egypt's proud sceptre freely then receive,
Whate'er the fertile flowing Nile can give:
Accept the treasures which this deed has spar'd;
Accept the benefit without reward.
Deign, Caesar! deign to think my royal lord
Worthy the aid of thy victorious sword:
In the first rank of greatness shall he stand;
He, who could Pompey's destiny command.
Nor frown disdainful on the proffer'd spoil,
Because not dearly bought with blood and toil;
But think, oh think, what sacred ties were broke.
How friendship pleaded, and how nature spoke:
That Pompey, who restor'd Auletes crown,
The father's ancient guest was murder'd by the son.
Then judge thyself, or ask the world and fame,
If services like these deserve a name.
If gods and men the daring deed abhor,
Think, for that reason, Caesar owes the more:
This blood for thee, though not by thee, was spilt
Thou hast the benefit, and we the guilt."
He said, and straight the horrid gift unveil'd.
And steadfast to the gazing victor held.
Chang'd was the face, deform'd with death all o'er,
Pale, ghastly, wan, and stain'd with clotted gore,
Unlike the Pompey Caesar knew before.
He nor at first disdain'd the fatal boon,
Nor started from the dreadful sight too soon.
Awhile his eyes the murderous scene endure,
Doubting they view; but shun it when secure.
At length, he stood convinc'd the deed was done
He saw 'twas safe to mourn his lifeless son:
And straight the ready tears, that stay'd till now,
Swift at command with pious semblance flow.
As if detesting, from the sight he tarns,
And, groaning, with a heart triumphant mourns.
He fears his impious thought should be descried,
And seeks in tears the swelling joy to hide.
Thus the curs'd Pharian tyrant's hopes were cross'd.
Thus all the merit of his gift was lost;
Thus for the murder Caesar's thanks were spar'd;
He chose to mourn it rather than reward.
And on the Senate's mangled fathers trode;
He who, without one pitying sigh, beheld
The blood and slaughter of that woeful field;
Thee, murder'd Pompey, could not ruthless see,
But paid the tribute of his grief to thee.
Oh, mystery of fortune and of fate!
Oh, ill-consorted piety and hate!
And canst thou, Caesar, then thy tears afford
To the dire object of thy vengeful sword?
Didst thou for this devote his hostile head;
Pursue him living, to bewail him dead?
Could not the gentle ties of kindred move?
Wert thou not touch'd with thy sad Julia's love?
And weep'st thou now? Dost thou these tears provide
To win the friends of Pompey to thy side?
Perhaps with secret rage thou dost repine,
That he should die by any hand but thine:
Thence fall thy tears, that Ptolemy has done
A murder due to Caesar's hand alone.
What secret springs soe'er these currents know,
'They ne'er by piety were taught to flow.
Or didst thou kindly, like a careful friend,
Pursue him flying only to defend?
Well was his fate denied to thy command!
Well was he snatch'd by fortune from thy hand!
Fortune withheld this glory from thy name,
Forbade thy power to save, and spar'd the Roman shame.
Still he goes on to vent his griefs aloud,
And, artful, thus deceives the easy crowd:
"Hence from my sight, nor let me see thee more;
Haste, to thy king his fatal gift restore.
At Caesar have you aim'd the deadly blow,
And wounded Caesar worse than Pompey now:
The cruel hands by which this deed was done,
Have torn away the wreaths my sword had won.
That noblest prize this civil war could give,
The victor's right to bid the vanquish'd live.
Then tell your king his gift should be repaid;
I would have sent him Cleopatra's head;
But that he wishes to behold her dead.
How has he dar'd, this Egypt's petty lord.
To join his murders to the Roman sword?
Did I for this, in heat of war, distain
With noblest blood Emathia's purple plain,
To license Ptolemy's pernicious reign?
Did I with Pompey scorn tire world to share?
And can I an Egyptian partner bear?
In vain the warlike trumpet's dreadful sound
Has rous'd the universe to arms around;
Vain was the shock of nations, if they own,
Now, any power on earth but mine alone.
If hither to your impious shores I came,
'Twas to assert, at once, my power and fame;
Lest the pale fury Envy should have said,
Your crimes I damn'd not, or your arms I fled.
Nor think to fawn before me, and deceive;
And guards the victor's head from Pompey 's fate.
What ruin, gods! attended on my arms!
What dangers unforeseen! What waiting harms!
Pompey, and Rome, and exile, were my fear;!
See yet a fourth, see Ptolemy appear!
The twy-king's vengeance loiters in the rear.
But we forgive his youth, and bid him know
Pardon and life's the most we can bestow.
For you, the meaner herd, with rites divine
And pious cares, the warrior's head inshrine:
Atone with penitence the injur'd shade,
And let his ashes in their urn be laid;
Pleas'd, let his ghost lamenting Caesar know,
And feel my presence here, ev'n in the realms below.
Oh, what a day of joy was lost to Rome,
When hapless Pompey did to Egypt come!
When, to a father and a friend unjust,
He rather chose the Pharian boy to trust.
The wretched world that loss of peace shall rue;
Of peace, which from our friendship might ensue;
But thus the gods their bard decrees have made;
In vain for peace and for repose I pray'd;
In vain implor'd that wars and rage might end,
That, suppliant-like, I might to Pompey bend,?
Beg him to live, and once more be my friend.
Then had my labours met their just reward,
And, Pompey, thou in all my glories shar'd;
Then, jars and enmities all past and gone,
In pleasure had the peaceful years roll'd on;
All should forgive, to make the joy complete;
Thou shouldst thy harder fate, and Rome my wars forget."
Fast falling still the tears, thus spoke the chief;
But found no partner in the specious grief.
Oh! glorious liberty J when all shall dare
A face, unlike their mighty lord, to wear!
Each in his breast the rising sorrow kept,
And thought it safe to laugh, though Caesar wept.