130

135

}

14.9.

145.

Pompey, with fecret anxious thought, beheld,
How trampling hoofs the rifing grafs repell'd;
Waste lie the ruffet fields, the generous fteed.
Seeks on the naked foil, in vain, to feed:
Loathing from racks of husky straw he turns,
And, pining, for the verdant pasture mourns.
No more his limbs their dying load fuftain,
Aiming a ftride, he falters in the ftrain,
And finks a ruin on the withering plain :
Dire maladies upon his vitals prey,
Diffolve his frame, and melt the mafs away.
Thence deadly plagues invade the lazy air,
Reek to the clouds, and hang malignant there.
From Nefis fuch, the Stygian vapours rife,
And with contagion taint the purer skies;
Such do Typhoeus' fteamy caves convey,
And breathe blue poifons on the golden day.
Thence liquid ftreams the mingling plague receive,
And deadly potions to the thirfty give:
To man the mischief spreads, the fell disease
In fatal draughts does on his entrails feize.
A rugged fcurf, all loathfom to be seen,
Spreads, like a bark, upon his filken fkin ;
Malignant flames his fwelling eye-balls dart,
And feem with anguish from their feats to start;
Fires o'er his glowing cheeks and visage stray,
And mark, in crimson streaks, their burning way;
Low droops his head, declining from its height,
And nods, and totters with the fatal weight.
With winged hafte the swift deftru&tion flies,
And fcarce the foldier fickens ere he dies;

150

155

160

Now

Now falling crouds at once refign their breath,
And doubly taint the noxious air with death.
Careless their putrid carcases are spread ;
And on the earth, their dank unwholsome bed,
The living reft in common with the dead.
Here none the last funereal rites receive;

}

To be cast forth the camp, is all their friends can give.
At length kind heaven their sorrows bade to cease,
And staid the peftilential foe's increase ;

Fresh breezes from the fea begin to rise,
While Boreas through the lazy vapour flies,

And fweeps, with healthy wings, the rank polluted

fkies.

Arriving veffels now their freight unload,

And furnish plenteous harvests from abroad:

Now fprightly ftrength, now chearful health, returns, 175
And life's fair lamp, rekindled, brightly burns.
But Cæfar, unconfin'd, and camp'd on high,
Feels not the mifchief of the fluggish sky:
On hills fublime he breathes the purer air,
And drinks no damps, nor poisonous vapours, there. 18.
Yet hunger keen an equal plague is found;
Famine and meagre want besiege him round:
The fields, as yet, no hopes of harvest wear,
Nor yellow stems disclose the bearded ear.
The scatter'd vulgar fearch around the fields,
And pluck whate'er the doubtful herbage yields;
Some strip the trees in every neighbouring wood,
And with the cattle fhare their graffy food.
Whate'er the foftening flame can pliant make,
Whate'er the teeth, or labouring jaws, can break; 190

185

What

What flesh, what roots, what herbs foe'er they get,
Though new, and strange to human taste as yet,
At once the greedy soldiers seize and eat.
What want, what pain foe'er they undergo,

Still they perfift in arms, and close beset the foe. 195
At length, impatient longer to be held
Within the bounds of one appointed field,
O'er every bar which might his passage stay,
Pompey refolves to force his warlike way;
Wide o'er the world the ranging war to lead,
And give his loosen'd legions room to spread.
Nor takes he mean advantage from the night,
Nor steals a paffage, nor declines the fight;
But bravely dares, difdainful of the foe,

200

Through the proud towers and ramparts breach to go, 205
Where fhining fpears, and crested helms are seen,

Embattled thick to guard the walls within ;
Where all things death, where ruin all afford,
There Pompey marks a paffage for his fword.
Near to the camp a woody thicket lay,

Clofe was the fhade, nor did the greenfward way,
With smoky clouds of duft, the march betray.
Hence, fudden they appear in dread array,
Sudden their wide-extended ranks display;
At once the foe beholds with wondering eyes,
Where on broad wings Pompeian eagles rise;
At once the warriors fhouts and trumpet-founds
furprise.

Scarce was the fword's deftruction needful here,
So fwiftly ran before preventing fear;

Some

Some fled amaz'd, while vainly valiant fome
Stood, but to meet in arms a nobler doom.
Where-e'er they ftood, now fcatter'd lie the flain,
Scarce yet a few for coming deaths remain,
And clouds of flying javelins fall in vain.
Here swift confuming flames the victors throw,
And here the ram impetuous aims a blow;
Aloft the nodding turrets feel the stroke,

And the vast rampart groans beneath the fhock.
And now propitious fortune feem'd to doom
Freedom and peace, to Pompey, and to Rome;
High o'er the vanquish'd works his eagles tower,
And vindicate the world from Cæfar's power.

But (what nor Cæfar, nor his fortune cou'd)
What not ten thoufand warlike hands withftood,
Scæva refifts alone; repels the force,
And ftops the rapid victor in his course.
Scæva! a name erewhile to fame unknown,
And firft diftinguifh'd on the Gallic Rhone;
There feen in hardy deeds of arms to fhine,
He reach'd the honours of the Latian vine.
Daring and bold, and ever prone to ill,
Inur'd to blood, and active to fulfil
The dictates of a lawlefs tyrant's will;

Nor virtue's love, nor reafon's laws he knew,

But, careless of the right, for hire his fword he drew. 245

Thus courage by an impious cause is curst,

And he that is the braveft, is the worst.
Soon as he faw his fellows fhun the fight,
And feek their fafety in ignoble flight,

Whence

250

Whence does, he faid, this coward's terror grow,
This fhame, unknown to Cæfar's arms till now?
Can you, ye flavish herd, thus tamely yield?
Thus fly, unwounded, from the bloody field?
Behold, where pil'd in flaughter'd heaps on high,
Firm to the last, your brave companions lie 255
Then blush to think what wretched lives you fave,
From what renown you fly, from what a glorious grave.
Though facred fame, though virtue yield to fear,
Let rage, let indignation, keep you.

here.

We! we the weakest, from the reft are chofe,
To yield a paffage to our scornful foes!
Yet, Pompey, yet, thou shalt be yet withstood,
And stain thy victor's laurel deep in blood.
With pride, 'tis true, with joy I should have dy'd,
If haply I had fall'n by Cæfar's fide;

But fortune has the noble death deny'd.

Then Pompey, thou, thou on my fame shalt wait,
Do thou be witnefs, and applaud my fate.
Now push we on, difdain we now to fear,
A thousand wounds let every bosom bear,

Till the keen fword be blunt, be broke the pointed
fpear.

And fee the clouds of dusty battle rise !

Hark how the shout runs rattling through the skies!
The diftant legions catch the founds from far,
And Cæfar listens to the thundering war,
He comes, he comes, yet ere his foldier dies,
Like lightning fwift the winged warrior flies:
Hate then to death, to conqueft haste away;

260

275

Well do we fall, for Cæfar wins the day.

He