When betwixt Marius and fierce Sylla toft,
The commonwealth her ancient freedom loft,
Some fhadow yet was left, fome shew of power;
Now ev'n the name with Pompey is no more:
Senate and people all at once are gone,

Nor need the tyrant blush to mount the throne.
Oh, happy Pompey! happy in thy fate,
Happy by falling with the falling ftate,

355

Thy death a benefit the gods did grant,

360

Thon might'ft have liv'd those Pharian swords to want. Freedom, at least, thou doft by dying gain,

}

365

Nor liv't to fee thy Julia's father reign;

Free death is man's first blifs, the next is to be flain.
Such mercy only I from Juba crave,

(If Fortune fhould ordain me Juba's flave)
To Cæfar let him fhew, but fhew me dead,
And keep my carcafe, fo he takes my head.

He faid, and pleas'd the noble shade below,
More than a thousand orators could do;
Though Tully too had lent his charming tongue,
And Rome's full Forum with his praife had rung.
But difcord now infects the fullen croud,
And now they tell their difcontents aloud:
When Tarchon firft his flying enfigns bore,
Call'd out to march, and haften'd to the shore;
Him Cato thus, purfuing as he mov’d,
Sternly bespoke, and juftly thus reprov'd:
Oh, restless author of the roving war,
Doft thou again piratic arms prepare ?
Pompey, thy terror and thy fcourge, is gone,
And now thou hop'ft to rule the feas alone.

370

375

380

He

}

He said, and bent his frown upon the rest,
Of whom one bolder thus the chief addrefs'd,
And thus their wearinefs of war confefs'd:

For Pompey's fake (nor thou difdain to hear)
The Civil War we wage, thefe arms we bear
Him we preferr'd to peace: but, Cato, now,
That cause, that mafter of our arms lies low.
Let us no more our abfent country mourn,
But to our homes and houshold gods return;
To the chafte arms from whofe embrace we fled,
And the dear pledges of the nuptial bed.

For, oh! what period can the war attend,

390

Which nor Pharfalia's field nor Poinpey's death can end?
The better times of flying life are paft,

Let death come gently on in peace at last.
Let age at length with providential care
The neceffary pile and urn prepare,
All rites the cruel Civil War denies,
Part ev'n of Pompey yet unbury'd lies.
Though vanquish'd, yet by no barbarian hand,
We fear not exile in a foreign land,

400

Nor are our necks by fortune now bespoke,

To bear the Scythian or Armenian yoke;

405

The victor ftill a citizen we own,

And yield obedience to the Roman gown.

While Pompey liv'd, he bore the fovereign fway;
Cæfar was next, and him we now obey;
With reverence be the facred fhade ador'd,

-410

But war has given us now another lord :

To Cæfar and fuperior chance we yield: .

All was determin'd in Emathia's field.

Nor

$

Nor fhall our arms on other leaders wait,

Nor for uncertain hopes moleft the state,

We follow'd Pompey once, but now we follow Fate.
What terms, what fafety, can we hope for now,

But what the victor's mercy fhall allow?

Once Pompey's prefence juftify'd the cause,

Then fought we for our liberties and laws;
With him the honours of that cause lie dead,
And all the fanctity of war is fled.

420

If, Cato, thou for Rome these arms doft bear,
If ftill thy country only be thy care,

Seek we the legions where Rome's enfigns fly,
Where her proud eagles wave their wings on high:
No matter who to Pompey's power fucceeds,
We follow where a Roman conful leads.

This faid, he leap'd aboard; the youthful fort
. Join in his flight, and haste to leave the port;
The fenfelefs croud their liberty disdain,
And long to wear victorious Cæfar's chain.
Tyrannic power now fudden feem'd to threat
The ancient glories of Rome's free-born state,
Till Cato fpoke, and thus deferr'd her fate :
Did then your vows and fervile prayers conspire
Nought but a haughty mafter to defire?

Did you, when eager for the battle, come

The flaves of Pompey, not the friends of Rome ?
Now, weary of the toil, from war you fly,

425

430

}

440

And idly lay your useless armour by;

Your hands neglect to wield the fhining fword,

Nor can you fight but for a king and lord.

Some

Some mighty chief you want, for whom to sweat;
Yourselves you know not, or at least forget,
And fondly bleed, that others may be great:
Meanly you toil, to give yourselves away;
And die, to leave the world a tyrant's prey.
The gods and fortune do at length afford
A caufe moft worthy of a Roman sword.
At length 'tis fafe to conquer. Pompey now
Cannot, by your fuccefs, too potent grow;
Yet now, ignobly, you withhold your hands,
When nearer liberty your aid demands.
Of three who durft the sovereign power invade,
Two by your fortune's kinder doom lie dead;
And fhall the Pharian fword and Parthian bow
Do more for liberty and Rome, than you?
Bafe as you are, in vile subjection go,
And scorn what Ptolemy did ill bestow.
Ignobly innocent, and meanly good,

}

4.50

455

460

You durft not stain your hardy hands in blood;
Feebly awhile you fought, but foon did yield,
And fled the first from dire Pharfalia's field;
Go then fecure, for Cæfar will be good,
Will pardon those who are with ease subdued;
The pitying victor will in mercy spare

465

The wretch, who never durft provoke his war.
Go, fordid flaves! one lordly mafter gone,
Like heirlooms go from father to the fon.
Still to enhance your fervile merit more,
Bear fad Cornelia weeping from the fhore;
Meanly for hire expofe the matron's life,
Metellus' daughter fell, and Pompey's wife;
Сс

470

Take

Take too his fons : let Cæfar find in you
Wretches that may ev'n Ptolemy out-do.
But let not my devoted life be spar'd,
The tyrant greatly fhall that deed reward;
Such is the price of Cato's hated head,

-475

That all your former wars fhall well be paid;

480

Kill me, and in my blood do Cæfar right,

Tis mean to have no other guilt but flight.

He faid, and ftopp'd the flying naval power;
Back they return'd, repenting, to the shore.
As when the bees their waxen town forfake,
Careless in air their wandering way they take,
No more in clustering fwarms condens'd they fly,
But fleet uncertain through the various sky;
No more from flowers they fuck the liquid fweet,
But all their care and industry forget:
Then if at length the tinkling brafs they hear,
With swift amaze their flight they foon forbear;
Sudden their flowery labours they renew,
Hang on the thyme, and fip the balmy.dew.
Meantime, fecure on Hybla's fragrant plain,
With joy exults the happy fhepherd swain ;
Proud that his art had thus preserv'd his store,
He fcorns to think his homely cottage poor.
With fuch prevailing force did Cato's care
>The fierce impatient foldiers minds prepare,
To learn obedience, and endure the war.
And now their minds, unknowing of repofe,
With bufy toil to exercise he chofe;
Still with fucceffive labours are they ply'd,
And oft in long and weary marches try d.

485

490

4495

}

505