To other wars the victor now fucceeds,
And his proud eagles from Iberia leads :
When the chang'd gods his ruin feem'd to threaty
And cross the long successful course of fate.
Amidst his camp, and fearless of his foes,
Sudden he faw where inborn dangers rofe,
He saw those troops that long had faithful stood,
Friends to his caufe, and enemies to good,
Grown weary of their chief, and fatiated with blood.
Whether the trumpet's found too long had ceas3d, 340
And flaughter slept in unaccustom'd reft:
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 cause, the scale,
And fet the mercenary fword to fale.
Nor, e'er before, fo truly could he read
What dangers ftrow thofe paths the mighty tread.
Then, first he found, on what a faithless base
Their nodding towers ambition's builders place: 350
He who fo 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 fufpicious go,
And dread of an informer chokes their woe:
Fut, bold in numbers, proudly they appear,
And fcorn the bafhful mean reftraints 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 haft 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,
Or that loft blood which stains the Rhine and Rhone! When fcarr'd with wounds, and worn with labours
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 wickedness we toil'd,
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 suffice?
Oh, fee at length! with pity, Cæfar, see,
Thefe withering arms, these 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 souls away.
Nor think it much we make the bold demand,
And ask this wondrous favour at thy hand:
Let our poor habes 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 sword;
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 fone more monstrous mischief yet behind?
Are we the only fools, forbid to know
How much we may deserve by one fure 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;
But his proud heart, henceforth, shall 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, 420
And we thy foldiers will command a peace.
He fpoke, 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 opposing 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 curft defigns,
With rapes of matrons, and the fpoils of fhrines;
Had they but afk'd it, well he could approve
The wafte and plunder of Tarpeian Jove:
No mischief he, no facrilege, denies,
But would himself bestow the horrid prize.
With joy he fees their fouls by rage poffeft,
Sooths and indulges every frantic breast,
And only fears what reafon may suggest.
Still, Cæfar, wilt thou tread the paths of blood?
Wilt thou, thou fingly, hate thy country's good!
Shall the rude foldier first of war complain,
And teach thee to be pitiful in vain ?
Give o'er at length, and let thy labours cease,
Nor vex the world, but learn to fuffer peace.
Why shouldst thou force each, now, unwilling hand,
And drive them on to guilt, by thy command ?
When ev'n relenting rage itself gives place,
And fierce Enyo seems to fhun thy face.
High on a turfy bank the chief was rear'd,
Fearless, and therefore worthy to be fear'd;
Around the croud he cast an angry look,
And, dreadful, thus with indignation spoke:
Ye noify herd! who in fo fierce a strain
Against your abfent leader dare complain :
Behold! where naked and unarm'd he stands,
And braves the malice of your threatening hands.
Here find your end of war, your long-fought rest,
And leave your useless fwords in Cæfar's breaft. 465
But wherefore urge I the bold deed to you?
To rail, is all your feeble rage can do.
In grumbling factions are you bold and loud,
Can fow fedition, and increase a croud;
You! who can loath the glories of the great,
And poorly meditate a base retreat,
But, hence! be gone from victory and me,
Leave me to what my better fates decree :
New friends, new troops, my fortune shall afford,
And find a hand for every vacant sword.
Behold, what crouds on flying Pompey wait,
What multitudes attend his abject state !
And shall fuccefs, and Cæfar, droop the while?
Shall I want numbers to divide the spoil,
And reap the fruits of your forgotten toil?
S
|