Is it a caufe fo worthy of our care,
That power may fall to this, or that man's fhare?
Do we for this the gods and confcience brave,
That one may rule, and make the reft a flave?
When thus ev'n liberty we scarce should buy,
But think a civil war a price too high.
Thus groan they at approaching dire events,
And thus expiring piety laments.
Mean-while the hoary fire his years deplores,
And age that former miferies reftores:
He hates his weary life prolong'd for woe,
Worfe days to fee, more impious rage to know.
Then fetching old examples from afar,
'Twas thus (he cries) Fate ufher'd in the war :
When Cimbrians fierce, and Libya's fwarthy lord,
Had fall'n before triumphant Marius' fword:
Yet to Minturne's marfh the victor fled,
And hid in oozy flags his exil'd head.
The faithlefs foil the hunted chief reliev'd,
And fedgy waters fortune's pledge receiv'd.
Deep in a dungeon plung'd at length he lay,
Where gyves and rankling fetters eat their way,
And noifome vapours on his vitals prey.
Ordain'd at ease to dine in wretched Rome,
He fuffer'd then, for wickedness to come.
In vain his foes had arm'd the Cimbrian's hand,
Death will not always wait upon command;
About to ftrike, the flave with horror fhook,
The useless steel his loofening gripe forfook;
Thick flashing flames a light unusual gave,
And fudden fhone around the gloomy cave;
Dreadful the Gods of guilt before him stood,
And Marius terrible in future blood;
When thus a voice began: Rash man forbear,
Nor touch that head which fate refolves to fpare;
Thousands are doom'd beneath his arm to bleed,
And countless deaths before his own decreed;
Thy wrath and purpose to deftroy is vain :
Would't thou avenge thee for thy nation flain?
Preferve this man; and in some coming day
The Cimbrian flaughter well he shall repay.
No pitying gcd, no power to mortals good,
Could fave a falvage wretch who joy'd in blood:
But Fate referv'd him to perform its doom,
And be the minifter of wrath to Rome.
By fwelling feas too favourably toft,
Safely he reach'd Numidia's hoftile coaft;
There, driv'n from man, to wilds he took his way, 140
And on the earth, where once he conquer'd, lay;
There in the lone unpeopled defert field,
Proud Carthage in her ruins he beheld;
Amidst her afhes pleas'd he fat him down,
And joy'd in the deftruction of the town.
The genius of the place, with mutual hate,
Fear'd its fad head, and fmil`d at Marius' fate;
Each with delight survey'd their fallen foe,
And each forgave the gods, that laid the other low.
There with new fury was his foul poffeft,
And Libyan rage collected in his breast.
Soon as returning fertune own'd his caufe,
Troops of revolting bond-men forth he draws;
Cut-throats and flaves refort to his command,
And arms were given to every baser hand.
None worthily the leader's standard bore,
Unftain'd with blood or blackeft crimes before:
Villains of fame, to fill his bands, were fought,
And to his camp increase of crimes they brought.
Who can relate the horrors of that day,
When first thefe walls became the victor's prey!
With what a ftride devouring Slaughter past,
And swept promifcuous orders in her hafte !
O'er noble and plebeian rang'd the sword;
Nor pity or remorfe one paufe afford.
The fliding streets with blood were clotted o'er,
And facred temples ftood in pools of gore.
The ruthless steel, impatient of delay,
Forbade the fire to linger out his day:
It truck the bending father to the earth,
And cropt the wailing infant at his birth.
(Can innocents the rage of parties know,
And they who ne'er offended find a foe?) ·
Age is no plea, and childhood no defence,
To kill is all the murderer's pretence.
Rage ftays not to inquire who ought to die,
Numbers must fall, no matter which, or why;
Each in his hand a griefly vifage bears,
And as the trophy of his virtue wears.
Who wants a prize, ftraight rushes through the streets, 180
And undiftinguish'd mows the first he meets;
The trembling crowd with fear officious strive,
And the fe who ki s the tyrant's hand furvive.
Oh could you fall fo low, degenerate race!
And purchase safety at a price so base ?
What though the fword was master of your doom,
Though Marius could have given you years to come,
Can Romans live by infamy fo mean?
But foon your changing fortune shifts the scene;
Short is your date; you only live to mourn
Your hopes deceiv'd, and Sylla's swift return.
The vulgar falls, and none laments his fate,
Sorrow has hardly leisure for the great.
What tears could Bæbius' hafty death deplore!
A thousand hands his mangled carcase tore;
His fcatter'd entrails round the streets were toft,
And in a moment all the man was loft.
Who wept, Antonius' murder to behold,
Whofe moving tongue the mifchief oft foretold?
Spite of his age and eloquence he bled;
The barbarous foldier fnatch'd his hoary head;
Dropping he bore it to his joyful lord,
And while he feafted plac'd it on the board.
The Craffi both by Fimbria's hand was flain,
And bleeding magistrates the pulpit stain.
Then did the doom of that neglecting hand,
Thy fate, O holy Scævola, command;
In vain for fuccour to the gods he flies,
The priest before the Veftal altar dies:
A feeble stream pour'd-forth the exhausted sire,
And fpar'd to quench the everliving fire.
The feventh returning Fafces now appear,
And bring ftern Marius' latest destin'd
Thus the long toils of changing life o'erpast,
Hoary and full of days he breath'd his last.
While Fortune frown'd, her fierceft wrath he bore,
And while fhe fmil'd enjoy'd her amplest power:
All various turns of good and bad he knew,
And prov'd the most that chance or fate could do.
What heaps of flain the Colline gate did yield! 220
What bodies ftrow'd the Sacriportan field,
When empire was ordain'd to change her feat,
To leave her Rome, and make Prænefte great!'
When the proud Samnites troops the state defy'd,
In terms beyond their Caudine treaty's pride.
Nor Sylla with lefs cruelty returns,
With equal rage the fierce avenger burns:
What blood the feeble city yet retain'd,
With too fevere a healing hand he drain'd':
Too deeply was the fearching fteel employ'd,
What maladies had hurt, the leach destroy'd.
The guilty only were of life bereft :
Alas! the guilty only then were left.
Diffembled hate and rancour rang'd at will,
All as they pleas'd took liberty to kill;
And while revenge no longer fear'd the laws,
Each private murder was the public cause.
The leader bade deftroy: and at the word,
The mafter fell beneath the fervant's fword.
Brothers on brothers were for gifts bestow'd,
And fons contended for their father's blood.
For refuge fome to caves and forests fled;
Some to the lonely manfions of the dead;
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