3.10

A double madness paints her cheeks by turns,
With fear the freezes, and with fury burns :
Sad breathing fighs with heavy accent go,
And doleful from her fainting bofom blow.
So when no more the ftorm fonorous fings,
But noify Boreas hangs his weary wings:
In hollow groans the falling winds complain,
And murmur o'er the hoarse-resounding main.
Now by degrees the fire æthereal fail'd,
And the dull human fenfe again prevail'd;
While Phoebus, fudden, in a murky shade,
Hid the past vision from the mortal maid.
Thick clouds of dark oblivion rife between,
And fnatch away at once the wondrous scene;
Stretch'd on the ground the fainting prieftefs lies, 315
While to the Tripod, back, th' informing spirit flies.
Mean-while, fond Appius, erring in his fate,
Dream'd of long safety, and a neutral state ;
And, ere the great event of war was known,
Fix'd on Euboean Chalcis for his own.

Fool! to believe that power could ward the blow,
Or fnatch thee from amidst the general woe!
In times like these, what god but death can save?
The world can yield no refuge, but the grave.
Where struggling feas Charyftos rude constrains,
And, dreadful to the proud, Rhamnufia reigns;
Where by the whirling current barks are toft
From Chalcis to unlucky Auli's coaft;

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There fhalt thou meet the gods appointed doom,
A private death, and long-remember'd tomb.

330

To

To other wars the victor now fucceeds,
And his proud eagles from Iberia leads :
When the chang'd gods his ruin feem'd to threat,
And cross the long fuccefsful courfe of fate.
Amidst his camp, and fearless of his foes,
Sudden he faw where inborn dangers rofe,

He faw thofe troops that long had faithful stood,
Friends to his caufe, and enemies to good,

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Grown weary of their chief, and fatiated with blood.
Whether the trumpet's found too long had ceas'd, 340
And flaughter flept in unaccustom'd rest:

Or whether, arrogant by mischief made,
The foldier held his guilt but half repay'd':
Whilft avarice and hope of bribes prevail,
Turn against Cæfar, and his caufe, the fcale,
And fet the mercenary sword to fale.

Nor, e'er before, fo truly could he read

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What dangers ftrow thofe paths the mighty tread.
Then, first he found, on what a faithlefs base
Their nodding towers ambition's builders place: 350
He who so late, a potent faction's head,
Drew in the nations, and the legions led;
Now ftript of all, beheld in every hand
The warriors weapons at their own command;
Nor fervice now, nor fafety they afford,
But leave him fingle to his guardian sword,
Nor is this rage the grumbling of a croud,
That fhun to tell their difcontents aloud;
Where all with gloomy looks suspicious go,
And dread of an informer chokes their woe:

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But,

But, bold in numbers, proudly they appear,
And fcorn the bafhful mean restraints of fear.
For laws, in great rebellions, lose their end,
And all go free, when multitudes offend.

Among the reft, one thus: At length 'tis time 365
To quit thy cause, oh Cæfar! and our crime :
The world around for foes thou hast explor'd,
And lavishly expos'd us to the fword;

To make thee great, a worthless crowd we fall,
Scatter'd o'er Spain, o'er Italy, and Gaul;
In every clime beneath the spacious sky,
Our leader conquers, and his foldiers die.
What boots our march beneath the frozen zone,

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Or that loft blood which stains the Rhine and Rhone! When fearr'd with wounds, and worn with labours

hard,

We come with hopes of recompence prepar'd,
Thou giv'ft us war, more war, for our reward.
Though purple rivers in thy cause we spilt,
And ftain'd our horrid hands in every guilt;
With unavailing wickednefs we toil'd,

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In vain the gods, in vain the fenate spoil'd;

Of virtue, and reward, alike bereft,

Our pious poverty is all we 've left.

Say to what height thy daring arms would rife?

If Rome 's too little, what can e'er fuffice?

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Oh, fee at length! with pity, Cæfar, fee,

Thefe withering arms, thefe hairs grown white for thee. In painful wars our joyless days have past,

Let weary age lie down on peace at last:

Give us, on beds, our dying limbs to lay,
And figh, at home, our parting fouls away.
Nor think it much we make the bold demand,
And ask this wondrous favour at thy hand:
Let our poor babes and weeping wives be by,
To close our drooping eyelids when we die.
Be merciful, and let disease afford
Some other way to die, befide the fword;
Let us no more a common carnage burn,
But each be laid in his own decent urn.
Still wilt thou urge us, ignorant and blind,
To fome more monstrous mischief yet behind?

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Are we the only fools, forbid to know

How much we may deserve by one sure blow?

Thy head, thy head is ours, whene'er we please ;
Well has thy war infpir'd fuch thoughts as these : 405
What laws, what oaths, can urge their feeble bands,
To hinder these determin'd daring hands ?

That Cæfar, who was once ordain'd our head,
When to the Rhine our lawful arms he led,

Is now no more our chieftain, but our mate;

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But his proud heart, henceforth, fhall learn to own,

His power, his fate, depends on us alone.

Yes, Cæfar, fpite of all thofe rods that wait,

With mean obfequious fervice, on thy state;

Spite of thy gods, and thee, the war fhall ceafe, 4200
And we thy foldiers will command a peace.

He spoke, and fierce tumultuous rage inspir'd,
The kindling legions round the camp were fir'd,
And with loud cries their abfent chief requir'd.
Permit it thus, ye righteous gods, to be;
Let wicked hands fulfil your great decree;
And, fince loft faith and virtue are no more,
Let Cæfar's bands the public peace restore.
What leader had not now been chill'd with fear,
And heard this tumult with the last despair ?
But Cæfar, form'd for perils hard and great,
Headlong to drive, and brave oppofing fate;
While yet with fiercest fires their furies flame,
Secure, and fcornful of the danger, came.
Nor was he wroth to fee the madness rise,
And mark the vengeance threatening in their eyes;
With pleasure could he crown their curst designs,
With rapes of matrons, and the spoils of shrines;
Had they but afk'd it, well he could approve
The waste and plunder of Tarpeian Jove :
No mifchief he, no facrilege, denies,
But would himself beftow the horrid prize.
With joy he fees their fouls by rage poffeft,
Sooths and indulges every frantic breast,
And only fears what reafon may fuggeft.
Still, Cæfar, wilt thou tread the paths of blood?
Wilt thou, thou fingly, hate thy country's good!
Shall the rude foldier firft of war complain,

And teach thee to be pitiful in vain ?

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