And when the curs'd Achillas pierc'd his breast,
His rifing indignation clofe reprefs'd.
No fighs, no groans, his dignity profan'd,
Nor tears his ftill unfully'd glory stain'd:
Unmov'd and firm he fix'd him on his feat,
And dy'd, as when he liv'd and conquer'd, great.
Meanwhile, within his equal parting foul,
Thefe lateft pleafing thoughts revolving roll.
In this my strongest trial, and my last,
As in fome theatre I here am plac'd :
The faith of Ægypt, and my fate, shall be
A theme for prefent times, and late pofterity.
Much of my former life was crown'd with praife,
And honours waited on my early days:
Then, fearlefs, let me this dread period meet,
And force the world to own the fcene complete.
Nor grieve, my heart! by fuch bafe hands to bleed
Whoever ftrikes the blow, 'tis Cæfar's deed.
What, though this mangled carcafe fhall be torn, 850
Thefe limbs be tost about for public fcorn;
My long profperity has found its end,
And death comes opportunely, like a friend:
It comes, to fet me free from fortune's power,
And gives, what she can rob me of no more.
My wife and fon behold me now, 'tis true;
Oh! may no tears, no groans, my fate pursue!
My virtue rather let their praise approve,
Let them admire my death, and my remembrance love.
Such conftancy in that dread hour remain'd,
And, to the laft, the ftruggling foul fuftain'd.
Not fo the matron's feebler powers reprefs'd' The wild impatience of her frantic breast: With every ftab her bleeding heart was torn, With wounds much harder to be feen, than borne. 865 'Tis I, 'tis I have murder'd him! (the cries) My love the fword and ruthless hand fupplies. 'Twas I allur'd him to my fatal isle, That cruel Cæfar firft might reach the Nile; For Cæfar fure is there; no hand but his Has right to fuch a parricide as this. But whether Cæfar, or whoe'er thou art, Thou haft miftook the way to Pompey's heart: That facred pledge in my fad bofom lies,
There plunge thy dagger, and he more than dies. 875
Me too, moft worthy of thy fury know,
The partner of his arms, and fworn your foe.
Of all our Roman wives, I fingly bore
The camp's fatigue, the fea's tempestuous roar :
No dangers, not the victor's wrath, I fear'd;
What mighty monarchs durft not do, I dar'd.
Thefe guilty arms did their glad refuge yield,
And clafp'd him, flying from Pharfalia's field.
Ah, Pompey! doft thou thus thy faith reward?
Shalt thou be doom'd to die, and I be spar'd ?
But Fate fhall many means of death afford,
Nor want th' affiftance of a tyrant's fword.
And you, my friends, in pity, let me leap
Hence headlong, down amidst the tumbling deep :
Or to my neck the ftrangling cordage tie;
If their be any friend of Pompey nigh,
Transfix me, ftab me, do but let me die.
My lord my husband!--Yet thou art not dead;
And fee! Cornelia is a captive led :
From thee their cruel hands thy wife detain,
Referv'd to wear th' infulting victor's chain.
She spoke; and stiffening funk in cold despair;
Her weeping maids the lifelefs burden bear;
While the pale mariners the bark unmoor,
Spread every fail, and fly the faithlefs fhore...
Nor agonies, nor livid death, disgrace
The facred features of the hero's face;
In the cold vifage, mournfully ferene;
The fame indignant majefty was feen;
There virtue ftill unchangeable abode,
And fcorn'd the spite of every partial god.
The bloody bufinef's now complete and done, New Furies urge the fierce Septimius on. He rends the robe that veil'd the hero's head, And to full view expos'd the recent dead ; Hard in his horrid gripe the face he prefs`d, While yet the quivering mufcles life confefs'd: He drew the dragging body down with haste, Then crofs a rower's feat the neck he plac'd; There, aukward, haggling, he divides the bone 915 (The headfman's art was then but rudely known). Straight on the spoil his Pharian partner flies, And robs the heartlefs villain of his prize. The head, his trophy, proud Achillas bears ; Septimius an inferior drudge appears, And in the meaner mifchief poorly fhares. Caught by the venerable locks, which grow, In hoary ringlets, on his generous brow,
To Egypt's impious king that head they bear,
That laurels us'd to bind, and monarchs fear. 925
Thofe facred lips, and that commanding tongue,
On which the liftening Forum oft has hung;
That tongue which could the world with ease restrain,
And ne'er commanded war or peace in vain ;
That face, in which fuccefs came fmiling home,
And doubled every joy it brought to Rome;
Now pale and wan, is fix'd upon a spear,
And borne, for public view, aloft in air.
The tyrant, pleas'd, beheld it; and decreed
To keep this pledge of his detested deed.
His flaves ftraight drain the ferous parts away,
And arm the wafting flesh against decay;
Then drugs and gums through the void veffels pafs,
And for duration fix the stiffening mafs.
Inglorious boy! degenerate and base!
Thou laft and worft of the Lagean race!
Whofe feeble throne, ere long, fhall be compell'd,
To thy lafcivious fifter's reign to yield:
Canft thou, with altars, and with rites divine,
The rafh vain youth of Macedon infhrine;
Can Egypt fuch ftupendous fabrics build;
Can her wide plains with pyramids be fill'd;
Canft thou, beneath fuch monumental pride,
Thy worthless Ptolomæan fathers hide;
While the great Pompey's headlefs trunk is tofs'd 950
In fcorn, unbury'd, on thy barbarous coaft?
Was it fo much? Could not thy care fuffice,
To keep him whole, and glut his father's eyes?
In this, his fortune ever held the fame,
Still wholly kind, or wholly cross, she came.
Patient, his long profperity fhe bore,
But kept this death, and this fad day, in store.
No meddling god did e'er his power employ,
To eafe his forrows, or to damp his joy;
Unmingled came the bitter and the sweet,
And all his good and evil was complete.
No fooner was he struck by fortune's hand,
But, fee! he lies unbury'd on the fand;
Rocks tear him, billows tofs him up and down,
And Pompey by a headless trunk is known.
Yet ere proud Cæfar touch'd the Pharian Nile,
Chance found his mangled foe a funeral pile:
In pity half, and half in fcorn, fhe gave
A wretched, to prevent a nobler grave.
Cordus, a follower long of Pompey's fate,
(His quæftor in Idalian Cyprus late)
From a clofe cave, in covert where he lay,
Swift to the neighbouring thore betook his way :
Safe in the shelter of the gloomy shade,
And by strong ties of pious duty fway'd,
The fearless youth the watery ftrand survey'd.
'Twas now the thickest darkness of the night,
And waining Phoebe lent a feeble light ;
Yet foon the glimmering goddefs plainly fhew'd
The paler corfe, amidst the dusky flood.
The plunging Roman flies to its relief,
And with strong arms infolds the floating chief.
Long ftrove his labour with the tumbling main,
And dragg'd the facred burden on with pain.
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