Nor luft of empire did his courage sway,
Nor hate, nor proud repugnance to obey:
Paffions and private interest he forgot;
Not for himself, but liberty he fought.
Straight to Corcyra's port his way he bent,
The fwift advancing victor to prevent;
Who, marching fudden on to new fuccefs,
The scatter'd legions might with ease oppress,
There, with the ruins of mathia's field,
The flying hoft, a thousand ships be fill'd.
Who that from land, with wonder, had descry'd
The paffing fleet, in all its naval pride,
Stretch'd wide, and o'er the diftant ocean spread,
Could have believ'd thofe mighty numbers fled?
Malea o'erpaft, and the Tænarian fhore,
With fwelling fails he for Cythera bore :
Then Crete he faw, and with a northern wind
Soon left the fam'd Dictan ifle behind.
Urg'd by the bold Phycuntine's churlish pride,
(Their fhores, their haven, to his fleet deny'd)
The chief reveng'd the wrong, and as he pafs'd,
Laid their unhospitable city waste.
Thence wafted forward, to the coaft he came
Which took of old from Palinure its name.
(Nor Italy this monument alone
Can boaft, fince Libya's Palinure has shown
Her peaceful hores were to the Trojan known.)
From hence they foon defcry with doubtful pain,
Another navy on the distant main.
Anxious they ftand, and now expect the foe,
Now their companions in the public woe:
The victor's hafte inclines them most to fear;
Each veffel feems a hoftile face to wear,
And every fail they spy, they fancy Cæfar 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 fad Cornelia's prayers, in vain,
Had try'd the flying navy to detain,
With Sextus long had ftrove, and long implor'd, 90
To wait the relicks of her murder'd lord;
The waves, perchance, might the dear pledge restore,
And waft him bleeding from the faithless fhore:
Still grief and love their various hopes infpire,
Till the beholds her Pompey's funeral fire,
Till on the land fhe fees th' ignoble flame
Afcend, unequal to the hero's name;
Then into just complaints at length she broke,
And thus with pious indignation fpoke:
Oh fortune! doft thou then difdain t'afford
My love's laft office to my deareft lord?
Am I one chafte, one laft embrace deny'd?
Shall I not lay me by his clay-cold fide,
Nor tears to bathe his gaping wounds provide?
Am I unworthy the fad torch to bear,
To light the flame, and burn my flowing hair?
To gather from the fhore the noble spoil,
And place it decent on the fatal pile?
Shall not his bones and facred duft be borne,
In this fad bofom, to their peaceful urn?
Whate'er the laft confuming flame shall leave,
Shall not this widow'd hand by right receive,
And to the gods the precious relicks give ?
Perhaps, this last respect, which I should show,
Some vile Ægyptian hand does now bestow,
Injurious to the Roman shade below.
Happy, my Craffus, 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 curfe my Pompey's pile bestow.
For ever will the fare fad fate return?
Still an unburied husband must I mourn,
And weep my forrows 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 furviving wives may grieve,
She never will need them, who difdains to live.
But oh! behold where yon malignant flames
Caft feebly forth their mean inglorious beams :
From my lov'd lord, his dear remains, they rife,
And bring my Pompey to my weeping eyes;
And now they fink, the languid lights decay,
The cloudy fmoke all eastward rolls away,
And wafts my hero to the rifing day.
Me too the winds demand, with freshening gales ;
Envious they call, and ftretch the fwelling fails.
No land on earth feems dear as Ægypt 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 loft, He that is left, lies dead on yonder coaft; He, only he, is all I now demand, For him I linger near this curfed land : Endear'd by crimes, for horrors lov'd the more, I cannot, will not, leave the Pharian fhore. Thou, Sextus, thou shalt prove the chance of war, And through the world thy father's enfigns bear, Then hear his laft command, intrufted to my care. "When e'er my laft, my fatal hour fhall come, "Arm you, my fons, for liberty and Rome; "While one shall of our free-born race remain, "Let him prevent the tyrant Cæfar'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 fea's wide rule your arms you bear, "A Pompey ne'er can want a navy there,
Heirs of my fame, my fons, fhall wage my war. "Only be bold, unconquer'd in the fight, "And, like your father, ftill defend the right. "To Cato, if for liberty he stand,
"Submit, and yield you to his ruling hand,
Brave, juft, and only worthy to command."
At length to thee, my Pompey, I am juft,
I have furviv'd, and well difcharg'd my trust;
Through chaos now, and the dark realms below,
To follow thee, a willing fhade Į 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 furvive.
She, who could bear to fee thy wounds, and live,
New proofs of love, and fatal grief, fhall give.
Nor need the fly for fuccour to the fword,
The fteepy precipice, and deadly cord;
She from herself fhall find her own relief,
And fcorn to die of any death but grief.
So faid the matron; and about her head
Her veil fhe draws, her mournful eyes to fhade.
Refolv'd to fhroud in thickeft fhades her woe,
She feeks the fhip's deep darkfome hold below:
There lonely left, at leisure to complain,
She hugs her forrows, and enjoys her pain;
Still with fresh tears the living grief would feed,
And fondly loves it, in her husband's ftead.
In vain the beating furges rage aloud,
And fwelling Eurus grumbles in the shroud;
Her, nor the waves beneath, nor winds above,
Nor all the noify cries of fear can move;
In fullen peace compos'd for death fhe lies,
And, waiting, longs to hear the tempeft rife;
Then hopes the feamens vows fhall all be croft,
Prays for the ftorm, and wishes to be loft.
Soon from the Pharian coaft the navy bore,
And fought through foamy feas the Cyprian shore;
Soft eastern gale3 prevailing thence alone,
To Cato's camp and Libya waft them on.
With mournful looks from land, (as oft, we know,
A fad prophetic fpirit waits on woe,)
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