In the Seventh Book is told, first, Pompey's dream the night before the battle of Pharfalia; after that, the impatient defire of his army to engage, which is reinforced by Tully. Pompey, though againft his own opinion and inclination, agrees to a battle. Then follows the fpeech of each general to his army, and the battle itself: the flight of Pompey; Cæfar's behaviour after his victory; and an invective against him, and the very country of Theffaly, for being the fcene (according to this and other authors) of fo many misfortunes to the people of Rome.
ATE, and unwilling, from his watery bed,
Uprear'd the mournful fun his cloudy head; He ficken'd to behold Emathia's plain,
And would have fought the backward east again:
Full oft he turn'd him from the deftin'd race,
And wifh'd fome dark eclipse might veil his radiant face.
Pompey, meanwhile, in pleafing vifions paft
The night, of all his happy nights the last.
It feem'd, as if, in all his former state,
In his own theatre fecure he fate:
About his fide unnumber'd Romans croud,
And, joyful, fhout his much-lov'd name aloud;
The echoing benches feem to ring around,
And his charin'd ears devour the pleafing found.
Such both himself, and fuch the people feem,
In the falfe profpect of the feigning dream;
As when in early manhood's beardless bloom,
He stood the darling hope and joy of Rome.
When fierce Sertorius by his arms fuppreft,
And Spain fubdued, the conqueror confest:
When rais'd with honours never known before,
The conful's purple, yet a youth, he wore:
When the pleas'd fenate fat with new delight,
To view the triumph of a Roman knight.
Perhaps, when our good days no longer last,
The mind runs backward, and enjoys the past:
Perhaps, the riddling visions of the night
With contrarieties delude our fight;
And when fair scenes of pleasure they difclofe,
Pain they foretel, and fure ensuing woes.
Or was it not, that, fince the fates ordain
Pompey should never see his Rome again,
One laft good office yet they meant to do,
And gave him in a dream this parting view?
Oh, may no trumpet bid the leader wake!
Long, let him long the blissful flumber take!
Too foon the morrow's fleepless night will come,
Full fraught with flaughter, mifery, and Rome;
With horror, and difmay, those shades shall rise,
And the loft battle live before his eyes.
How bleft his fellow-citizens had been,
Though but in dreams, their Pompey to have seen!
Oh! that the gods, in pity, would allow,
Such long-try'd friends their deftiny to know;
So each to each might their fad thoughts convey, 45
And make the most of their last mournful day.
But now, unconfcious of the ruin nigh,
Within his native land he thinks to die :
While her fond hopes with confidence prefume,
Nothing fo terrible from fate can come,
As to be robb'd of her lov'd Pompey's tomb.
Had the fad city Fate's decree foreknown,
What floods, faft falling, fhould her lofs bemoan!
Then fhould the lufty youth, and fathers hoar,
With mingling tears, their chief renown'd deplore; 55
Maids, matrons, wives, and babes, a helpless train,
As once for godlike Brutus, fhould complain;
Their treffes fhould they tear, their bofoms beat,
And cry loud-wailing in the doleful ftreet.
Nor shalt thou, Rome, thy gufhing forrows keep, 60 Though aw'd by Cæfar, and forbid to weep; Though, while he tells thee of thy Pompey dead, He shakes his threatening fauchion o'er thy head. Lamenting crouds the conqueror fhall meet, And with a peal of groans his triumph greet; In fad proceffion, fighing fhall they go, And ftain his laurels with the ftreams of woe. But now, the fainting ftars at length gave way, And hid their vanquish'd fires in beamy day; When round the leader's tent the legions croud, And, urg'd by fate, demand the fight aloud. Wretches! that long their little life to waste, And hurry on thofe hours that fly too fast! U
Too foon, for thousands, shall the day be done,
Whofe eyes no more shall see the setting fun.
Tumultuous speech th' impulfive rage confest,
And Rome's bad genius rose in every breast.
With vile disgrace they blot their leader's name,
Pronounce ev'n Pompey fearful, flow, and tame,
And cry, He finks beneath his father's fame.
Some charge him with ambition's guilty views,
And think 'tis power, and empire, he pursues;
That, fearing peace, he practifes delay,
And would, for ever, make the world obey.
While eastern kings of lingering wars complain,
And wish to view their native realms again.
Thus when the gods are pleas'd to plague mankind,
Our own rash hands are to the task affign'd;
By them ordain'd the tools of Fate to be,
We blindly act the mischiefs they decree;
We call the battle, we the sword prepare,
And Rome's deftruction is the Roman prayer.
The general voice, united, Tully takes,
And for the rest the sweet perfuader speaks;
Tully, for happy eloquence renown'd,
With every Roman grace of language crown'd;
Beneath whofe rule and government rever'd,
Fierce Catiline the peaceful axes fear'd:
But now, detain'd amidst an armed throng,
Where loft his arts, and useless was his tongue,
The orator had borne the camp too long.
He to the vulgar fide his pleading draws,
And thus enforces much their feeble caufe:
For all that fortune for thy arms has done, For all thy fame acquir'd, thy battles won ; This only boon her fuppliant vows implore, That thou would'st deign to use her aid once more: In this, O Pompey! kings and chiefs unite, And, to chastife proud Cæfar, ask the fight. Shall he, one man against the world combin'd, Protract destruction, and embroil mankind? What will the vanquish'd nations murmuring fay, Where once thy conquefts cut their winged way; When they behold thy virtue lazy now, And fee thee move thus languishing and flow? Where are thofe fires that warm'd thee to be great? That ftable foul, and confidence in Fate? Canft thou the gods ungratefully mistrust? Or think the fenate's facred caule unjuft?
Scarce are th' impatient enfigns yet withheld : 120
Why art thou, thus, to victory compell'd?
Doft thou Rome's chief, and in her caufe, appear?
'Tis hers to choose the field, and the appoints it here.
Why is this ardor of the world withstood,
The injur'd world, that thirfts for Cæfar's blood? 125
See! where the troops with indignation stand,
Each javelin trembling in an eager hand,
And wait, unwillingly, the laft command.
Refolve the fenate then, and let them know,
Are they thy fervants, or their fervant thou?
Sore figh'd the liftening chief, who well could read Some dire delufion by the gods decreed;
He saw the fates malignantly inclin'd,
Te thwart his purpose, and perplex his mind.
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