Nor in suspense uncertain fortune hung,
But yields, o'ermaster'd by a power too strong,
And borne by fate's impetuous stream along.
From Pompey's ample wings, at length the
horse

Wide o'er the plain extending take their course;
Wheeling around the hostile line they wind,
While lightly arm'd the shot succeed behind.
In various ways the various bands engage,
And hurl upon the foe the missile rage:
There fiery darts and rocky fragments fly,
And heating bullets whistle through the sky:
Of father'd shafts, a cloud thick shading goes,
From Arab, Mede, and Ituræan bows:

But driven by random aim they seldom wound; at first they hide the Heaven, then strow the ground;

While Roman hands unerring mischief send,
And certain deaths on every pile attend.
But Cæsar, timely careful to support
His wavering front against the first effort,
Had plac'd his bodies of reserve behind,
And the strong rear with chosen cohorts lin❜d.
There, as the careless foe the fight pursue,
A sudden band and stable forth he drew;
When soon, oh shame! the loose barbarians yield,
Scattering their broken squadrons o'er the field,
And show, too late, that slaves attempt in vain
The sacred cause of freedom to maintain.
The fiery steeds, impatient of a wound,
Hart their neglected riders to the ground;
Or on their friends with rage ungovern'd turn,
And trampling o'er the helpless foot are borne.
Hence foul confusion and dismay succeed,
The victors murder, and the vanquish'd bleed:
Their weary bands the tir'd destroyers ply,
Scarce can these kill, so fast as those cau die.
Oh, that Emathia's ruthless guilty plain
Hal been contended with this only stain;
With these rude bones bad strown her verdure o'er,
And dy'd her springs with none but Asian gore!
But if so keen her thirst for Roman blood,

I none but Romans make the slaughter good;
Let not a Mede nor Cappadocian fall,
No bold Iberian, or rebellious Gaul:
Let these alone survive for times to come,
And be the future citizens of Rome.
But fear on all alike her powers employ'd,
Did Caesar's business, and like fate destroy'd. ̧
Prevailing still the victors held their course,
Tell Pompey's main reserve oppos'd their force;
There, in his strength, the chief unshaken stood,
Repoli'd the foe, and made the combat good;
There in suspense th' uncertain battle hung,
And Caesar's favouring goddess doubted long;
There no proud monarchs led their vassals on,
Nor eastern bands in gorgeous purple shone;
There the last force of laws and freedom lay,
And Roman patriots struggled for-the day.
What parricides the guilty scene affords!
Sires, sons, and brothers, rush on mutual swords!
There every sacred bond of nature bleeds;
There met the war's worst rage, and Cæsar's
blackest deeds.

But Cæsar's rage shall with oblivion strive, And for eternal infamy survive. From rank to rank, unweary'd, still he flies, And with new fires their fainting wrath supplies. His greedy eyes each sign of guilt explore, And mark whose sword is deepest dy'd in gore; Observe where pity and remorse prevail, [pale. What arm strikes faintly, and what cheek turns Or, while he rides the slaughter'd heaps arouud, And views some foe expiring on the ground, His cruel hands the gushing blood restrain, And strive to keep the parting soul in pain: As when Bellona drives the world to war, Or Mars comes thundering in his Thracian car; Rage horrible darts from his Gorgon shield, And gloomy terrour broods upon the field; Hate, fell and fierce, the dreadful gods impart, And urge the vengeful warrior's heaving heart; The many shout, arms clash, the wounded cry, And one promiscuous peal groans upwards to the Nor furious Cæsar, on Emathia's plains, Less terribly the mortal strife sustains: Each hand unarm'd he fills with means of death, And cooling wrath rekindles at his breath: Now with his voice, his gesture now, he strives, Now with his lance the lagging soldier drives: The weak he strengthens, and confirms the strong, And hurries war's impetuous stream along. "Strike home," he cries," and let your swords erase Each well-known feature of the kindred face: Nor waste your fury on the vulgar band; See! where the hoary doting senate stand; There laws and right at once you may confound, And liberty shall bleed at every wound."

[sky.

The curs'd destroyer spoke; and, at the word, The purple nobles sunk beneath the sword: The dying patriots groan upon the ground, Illustrious names, for love of laws renown'd. The great Metelli and Torquati bleed, Chief's worthy, if the state had so decreed, And Pompey were not there, mankind to lead.

Say thou! thy sinking country's only prop, Glory of Rome, and liberty's last hope; What helm, O Brutus! could, amidst the crowd, Thy sacred undistinguish'd visage shroud? Where fought thy arm that day! But, ah! forbear! Nor rush unwary on the pointed spear; Seek not to hasten on untimely fate, But patient for thy own Emathia wait: Nor hunt fierce Cæsar on this bloody plain, To day thy steel pursues his life in vain. Somewhat is wanting to the tyrant yet. To make the measure of his crimes complete; As yet he has not every law defy'd, Nor reach'd the utmost heights of daring pride. Ere long thou shalt behold him Rome's proud lord, And ripen'd by ambition for thy sword; Then, thy griev'd country vengeance shall deAnd ask the victim at thy righteous hand.

[mand,

Among huge heaps of the patricians slain, And Latian chiefs, who strow'd that purple plain, Recording story has distinguish'd well, How brave, unfortunate Domitius fell. In every loss of Pompey still he shar'd, And dy'd in liberty, the best reward; Though vanquish'd oft by Cæsar, ne'er enslav'd, F'en to the last, the tyrant's power he brav'd: Mark'd o'er with many a glorious streaming

wound,

In pleasure sunk the warrior to the ground;

Yet trust securely to the choice of Heaven,
And know thy loss was for a blessing giv'n:
Though flight may seem the warrior's shame and
To conquer, in a cause like this, is worse. [curse;
And, on! let every mark of grief be spar'd,
May no tear fall, no groan, no sigh be heard;
Still let mankind their Pompey's fate adore,
And reverence thy fall, e'en as thy height of power.
Meanwhile survey th' attending world around,
Cities by thee possess'd, and monarchs crown'd:
On Afric, or on Asia, cast thy eye,

And mark the land where thou shalt choose to die.
Larissa first the constant chief beheld,
Still great, though flying from the fatal field:
With loud acclaim her crowds his coming greet,
And sighing, pour their presents at his feet.
She crowns her altars, and proclaims a feast;
Would put on joy to cheer her noble guest;
But weeps, and begs to share his woes at least.
So was he lov'd e'en in his lost estate,
Such faith, such friendship, on his ruins wait;
With ease Pharsalia's loss might be supply'd,
While eager nations hasten to his side;
As if misfortune meant to bless him more,
Than all his long prosperity before.

[aid;

"In vain," he cries, " you bring the vanquish'd
Henceforth to Cæsar be your homage paid,
Casar, who triumphs o'er yon heaps of dead."
With that, his courser urging on to flight,
He vanish'd from the mournful city's sight.
With cries, and loud laments, they fill the air,
And curse the cruel gods, in fierceness of despair.
Now in huge lakes Hesperian crimson stood,
And Cæsar's self grew satiated with blood.
The great patricians fall'n, his pity spar'd
The worthless, unresisting, vulgar herd.
Then, while his glowing fortune yet was warm,
And scattering terrour spread the wild alarm,
Straight to the hostile camp his way he bent,
Careful to seize the hasty flyer's tent,
The leisure of a night, and thinking to prevent.
Nor reck'd he much the weary soldiers toil,
But led them prone, and greedy to the spoil.
"Behold," he cries, " our victory complete,
The glorious recompense attends you yet:
Much have you done to day, for Cæsar's sake;
'Tis mine to show the prey, 't is yours to take.
'Tis yours, whate'er the vanquish'd foe has left;
Tis what your valour gain'd, and not my gift.
Treasures immense yon wealthy tents infold,
The gems of Asia, and Hesperian gold;
For you the once-great Pompey's store attends,
With regal spoils of his barbarian friends:
Haste then, prevent the foe, and seize that good,
For which you paid so well with Roman blood."
He said; and with the rage of rapine stung,
The multitude tumultuous rush along.
On swords, and spears, on sires and sons they
tread,

And all remorseless spurn the gory dead.
What trench can intercept, what fort withstand
The brutal soldier's rude rapacious hand;
When eager to his crime's reward he flies,
And, bath'd in blood, demands the horrid prize?
There, wealth collected from the world around,
The destin'd recompense of war they found.
But, oh! not golden Arimaspus' store,
Nor all the Tagus or rich Iber pour,
Can fill the greedy victors griping hands:
Rome, and the Capitol, their pride demands;

[laid.

All other spoils they scorn, as worthless prey,
And count their wicked labours robb'd of pay.
Here in patrician tents, plebeians rest,
And regal couches are by ruffians press'd:
There impious parricides the bed invade,
And sleep where late their slaughter'd sires were
Meanwhile the battle stands in dreams renew'd,
And Stygian horrours o'er their slumbers brood.
Astonishment aud dread their souls infest,
And guilt sits painful on each heaving breast.
Arms, blood, and death, work in the labouring
brain,
[again.

They sigh, they start, they strive, and fight it o'er
Ascending fiends infect the air around, [ground:
And Hell breathes baleful through the groaning
Hence dire affright distracts the warriors' souls,
Vengeance divine their daring hearts controls,
Snakes hiss, and livid flame tormenting rolls.
Each, as his hands in guilt have been imbru'd,
By some pale spectre flies all night pursu❜d.
In various forms the ghosts unnumber'd groan,
The brother, friend, the father, and the son:
To every wretch his proper phantom fell,
While Cæsar sleeps the general care of Hell.
Such were his pangs as mad Orestes felt,
Ere yet the Scythian altar purg'd his guilt.
Such horrours Pentheus, such Agave knew;
He when his rage first came, and she when hers
withdrew.

Present and future swords his bosom bears,
And feels the blow that Brutus now defers.
Vengeance, in all her pomp of pain, attends;
To wheels she binds him, and with vultures rends,
With racks of conscience, and with whips of fiends.
But soon the visionary horrours pass,
And his first rage with day resumes its place:
Again his eyes rejoice to view the slain,
And run unweary'd o'er the dreadful plain.
He bids his train prepare his impious board,
And feasts amidst the heaps of death abhorr'd.
There each pale face at leisure he may know,
And still behold the purple current flow.
He views the woeful wide horizon round,
Then joys that earth is no where to be found,
And owns, those gods he serves,his utmost wish have
Still greedy to possess the curs'd delight, [crown'd;
To glut his soul, and gratify his sight,
The last funereal honours he denies,
And poisons with the stench Emathia's skies.
Not thus the sworn inveterate foe of Rome,
Refus'd the vanquish'd consul's bones a tomb:
His piety the country round beheld,
And bright with fires shone Canna's fatal field,
But Cæsar's rage from fiercer motives rose;
These were his countrymen, his worst of foes.
But, oh! relent, forget thy hatred past,
And give the wandering shades to rest at last.
Nor seek we single honours for the dead,
At once let nations on the pile be laid:
To feed the flame, let heapy forests rise,
Far be it seen to fret the ruddy skies,
And grieve despairing Pompey where he flies.
Know too, proud conqueror, thy wrath in vain
Strows with unbury'd carcasses the plain.
What is it to thy malice, if they burn,
Rot in the field, or moulder in the urn?
The forms of matter all dissolving die,
And lost in nature's blending bosom lie.
Though now thy crucity denies a grave,
These and the world one common lot shall havè;

One last appointed flame, by fate's decree, [sea;
Shall waste yon azure heavens, this earth, and
Shall knead the dead up in one mingled mass,
Where stars and they shall undistinguish'd pass.
And though thou scorn their fellowship, yet know,
High as thy own can soar these souls shail go;
Or find, perhaps, a better place below.
Death is beyond thy goddess Fortune's power,
And parent Earth receives whate'er she bore.
Nor will we mourn those Romans' fate, who lie
Beneath the glorious covering of the sky;
That starry arch for ever round them turns,
A nobler shelter far than tombs or urns.

But wherefore parts the loathing victor hence?
Does slaughter strike too strongly on thy sense?
Yet stay, yet breathe the thick infectious stream,
Yet quaff with joy the blood-polluted steam.
But see, they fly! the daring warriors yield!
And the dead heaps drive Cæsar from the field!
Now to the prey, gaunt wolves, a howling train,
Speed hungry from the fair Bistonian plain;
From Pholoe the tawny lion comes,

And growling bears forsake their darksome homes:
With these, lean dogs in herds obscene repair,
And every kind that snuffs the tainted air.
For food the cranes their wonted flight delay,
That erst to warmer Nile had wing'd their way:
With them the feather'd race convene from far,
Who gather to the prey, and wait on war.
Ne'er were such flocks of vultures seen to fly,
And hide with spreading plumes the crowded sky:
Gorging on limbs in every tree they sat,
And dropp'd raw morsels down and gory fat:
Oft their tir'd talous, loosening as they fled,
Rain'd horrid offals on the victor's head.
But while the slain supply'd too full a feast,
The plenty bred satiety at last;

The ravenous feeders riot at their ease,
And single out what dainties best may please.
Part borne away, the rest neglected lie,
For noon-day suns, and parching winds, to dry;
Till length of time shall wear them quite away,
And mix them with Emathia's common clay.

Oh fatal Thessaly! oh land abhorr'd!
How have thy fields the hate of Heav'n incurr'd;
That thus the gods to thee destruction doom,
And load thee with the curse of falling Rome!
Still to new crimes, new horrours, dost thou haste,
When yet thy former mischiefs scarce were past.
What rolling years, what ages, can repay
The multitudes thy wars have swept away!
Though tombs and urns their numerous store
should spread,

And long antiquity yield all her dead;
Thy guilty plains more slaughter'd Romans hold,
Than all those tombs, and all those urns, infold.
Hence bloody spots shall stain thy grassy green,
And crimson drops on bladed corn be seen:
Each ploughshare some dead patriot shall molest,
Disturb his bones, and rob his ghost of rest.
Oh! had the guilt of war been all thy own,
Were civil rage confin'd to thee alone;
No mariner his labouring bark should moor,
In hopes of safety, on thy dreadful shore;
No swain thy spectre-haunted plain should know,
Nor turn thy blood-stain'd fallow with his plough:
No shepherd e'er should drive his flock to feed,
Where Romans slain enrich the verdant mead:
All desolate should lie thy land and waste,
As in some scorch'd or frozen region plac'd.

But the great gods forbid our partial hate
On Thessaly's distinguish'd land to wait;
New blood, and other slaughters, they decree,
And others shall be guilty too, like thee.
Munda and Mutina shall boast their slain,
Pachynus' waters share the purple stain
And Actium justify Pharsalia's plain.

BOOK VIII.

THE ARGUMENT.

To

From Pharsalia Pompey flies, first to Larissa, and after to the sea-shore; where he embarks upon a small vessel for Lesbos. There, after a melancholy meeting with Cornelia, and his refusal of the Mitylenians' invitations, he embarks with his wife for the coast of Asia. In the way thither he is joined by his son Sextus, and several persons of distinction, who had fled likewise from the late battle, and among the rest by Deiotarus, king of Gallo-Græcia. him he recommends the soliciting of supplies from the king of Parthia, and the rest of his allies in Ásia. After coasting Cilicia for some time, he comes at length to a little town called Syedra or Syedræ, where great part of the senate meet him. With these, he deliberates upon the present circumstances of the commonwealth, and proposes either Mauritania, Ægypt, or Parthia, as the proper places where he may hope to be received, and from whose kings he may expect assistance. In his own opinion he inclines to the Parthians; but this Lentulus, in a long oration, opposes very warmly; and, in consideration of young Ptolemy's personal obligations to Pompey, prefers Egypt. This advice is generally approved and followed, and Pompey sets sail accordingly for Egypt. Upon his arrival on that coast, the king calls a council, where, at the instigation of Pothinus, a villanous minister, it is resolved to take his life; and the execution of this order is committed to the care of Achillas, formerly the king's governor, and then general of the army. He, with Septimius, a renegado Roman soldier, who had formerly served under Pompey, upou some frivolous pretences, persuades him to quit his ship, and come into their boat; where, as they make towards the shore, he treacherously murders him, in the sight of his wife, his son, and the rest of his fleet. His head is cut off, and his body thrown into the sea. The head is fixed upon a spear, and carried to Ptolemy; who, after he had seen it, commands it to be embalmed.

In the succeeding night, one Cordus, who had been a follower of Pompey, finds the trunk floating near the shore, brings it to land with some difficulty; and, with a few planks that remained from a shipwrecked vessel, burns it. The melancholy description of this mean funeral, with the poet's invective against the gods, and fortune, for their unworthy treat ment of so great a man, concludes this book.

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,