He faid; and foon the leaden fleep prevail'd,
And everlasting night his eyelids feal'd.
But, oh! what grief the ruin can deplore!
What verfe can run the various flaughter o'er!
For leffer woes our forrows may we keep;
No tears fuffice, a dying world to weep.
In differing groups ten thoufand deaths arife,
And horrors manifold the foul furprize.
Here the whole man is open'd at a wound,
And gushing bowels pour upon the ground:
Another through the gaping jaws is gor'd,
And in his utmost throat receives the fword:
At once, a fingle blow a third extends;
The fourth a living trunk dismember'd stands.
Some in their breasts erect the javelin bear,
Some cling to earth with the transfixing spear.
Here, like a fountain, fprings a purple flood,
Spouts on the foe, and ftains his arms with blood.
There horrid brethren on their brethren prey;
One ftarts, and hurls a well-known head away.
While fome detefted fon, with impious ire,
Lops by the shoulders close his hoary fire:
Ev'n his rude fellows damn the curfed deed,
And baftard-born the murderer aread.
No private house its lofs lamented then,
But count the flain by nations, not by men.
Here Grecian ftreams, and Afiatic run,
And Roman torrents drive the deluge on.
More than the world at once was given away,
And late pofterity was loft that day :
A race of future flaves receiv'd their doom,
And children yet unborn were overcome.
How shall our miserable sons complain,
That they are born beneath a tyrant's reign?
Did our base hands, with justice shall they say,
The facred cause of liberty betray?
Why have our fathers given us up a prey ?
Their age, to ours, the curfe of bondage leaves;
Themselves were cowards, and begot us flaves.
'Tis ju; and Fortune, that impos'd a lord,
One ftruggle for their freedom might afford;
Might leave their hands their proper cause to fight,
And let them keep, or lose themselves, their right.
But Pompey, now, the fate of Rome defcry'd, 935
And saw the changing gods forfake her fide.
Hard to believe, though from a rifing ground
He view'd the univerfal ruin round,
In crimson ftreams he faw deftruction run,
And in the fall of thoufands felt his own.
Nor wifh'd he, like moft wretches in defpair,
The world one common mifery might share :
But with a generous, great, exalted mind,
Befought the gods to pity poor mankind,
To let him die, and leave the reft behind:
This hope came fmiling to his anxious breast,
For this his earnest vows were thus addrefs'd.
Spare man, ye gods! oh, let the nations live!
Let me be wretched, but let Rome furvive.
Or if this head fuffices not alone,
My wife, my fons, your anger shall atone;
If blood the yet unfated war demand,
Behold my pledges left in fortune's hand!
Ye cruel powers, who urge me with your hate,
At length behold me crush'd beneath the weight: 955
Give then your long-pursuing vengeance o'er,
And spare the world, fince I can lose no more.
So faying, the tumultuous field he crofs'd,
And warn'd from battle his despairing hoft.
Gladly the pains of death he had explor'd,
And fall'n undaunted on his pointed fword;
Had he not fear'd th' example might fucceed,
And faithful nations by his fide would bleed.
Or did his fwelling foul difdain to die,
While his infulting father stood fo nigh?
Fly where he will, the gods shall still pursue,
Nor his pale head shall 'scape the victor's view.
Or elfe, perhaps, and Fate the thought approv'd,
For her dear fake he fled, whom best he lov'd:
Malicious Fortune to his wifh agreed,
And gave him in Cornelia's fight to bleed.
Borne by his winged steed at length away,
He quits the purple plain, and yields the day.
Fearlefs of danger, ftill fecure and great,
His daring soul supports his lost estate;
Nor groans his breaft, nor fwell his eyes with tears, But ftill the fame majestic form he wears.
An awful grief fat decent in his face,
Such as became his lofs, and Rome's difgrace:
His mind, unbroken, keeps her conftant frame, 980 In greatness and misfortune ftill the fame;
While fortune, who his triumphs once beheld,
Unchanging fees him leave Pharsalia's field.
Now, disentangled from unwieldy power,
O Pompey! run thy former honours o'er :
At leifure now review the glorious fcene,
And call to mind how mighty thou hast been.
From anxious toils of empire turn thy care,
And from thy thoughts exclude the murderous war;
Let the just gods bear witness on thy fide,
Thy cause no more shall by the sword be try'd.
Whether fad Afric fhall her lofs bemoan,
Or Munda's plains beneath their burden groan,
The guilty bloodshed shall be all their own.
No more the much-lov'd Pompey's name fhall charm
The peaceful world, with one consent, to arm;
Nor for thy fake, nor aw'd by thy command,
But for themselves, the fighting senate stand:
The war but one diftinction hall afford,
And Liberty, or Cæfar, be the word.
Nor, oh! do thou thy vanquifh'd lot deplore,
But fly with pleasure from those feas of gore:
Look back upon the horror, guiltless thou,
And pity Cæfar, for whose fake they flow.
With what a heart, what triumph fhall he come, 1005
A victor, red with Roman blood, to Rome
Though mifery thy banishment attends,
Though thou shalt die, by thy false Pharian friends ;
Yet truft fecurely to the choice of heaven,
And know thy lofs was for a blessing giv'n :
Though flight may feem the warrior's fhame and curfe
To conquer, in a caufe like this, is worse.
And, oh! let every mark of grief be spar'd.
May no tear fall, no groan, no figh be heard;
Still let mankind their Pompey's fate adore,
And reverence thy fall, ev'n as thy height of power.
Meanwhile furvey th' attending world around,
Cities by thee poffefs'd, and monarchs crown'd:
On Afric, or on Afia, caft thy eye,
And mark the land where thou fhalt choofe to die. 1020
Lariffa firft the conftant chief beheld,
Still great, though flying from the fatal field:
With loud acclaim her crowds his coming greet,
And, fighing, pour their prefents at his feet.
She crowns her altars, and proclaims a feaft:
Would put on joy to chear her noble guest;
But weeps, and begs to fhare his woes at leaft.
So was he lov'd ev'n in his loft eftate,
Such faith, fuch friendship, on his ruins wait;
With cafe Pharfalia's lofs might be supply'd,
While eager nations haften to his fide:
As if misfortune meant to bless him more,
Than all his long prosperity before.
In vain, he cries, you bring the vanquifi'd aid;
Henceforth to Cæfar be your homage paid,
Cefar, who triumphs o'er yon heaps of dead.
With that, his courfer urging on to flight,
He vanish'd from the mournful city's fight.
With cries, and loud laments, they fill the air,
And curfe the cruel gods, in fiercenefs of defpair. 1040
Now in huge lakes Hefperian crimson stood,
And Cæfar's felf grew fatiated with blood.
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