Why all these pains, this toil of fate (he cries)
This labour of the feas, and earth, and skies?
All nature and the gods, at once alarm'd,
Against my little boat and me are arm'd.
If, oh ye Powers Divine! your will decrees
The glory of my death to these rude feas;
If warm, and in the fighting field to die,
If that, my firft of wishes, you deny;
My foul no longer at her lot repines,
But yields to what your providence affigns.
Though immature I end my glorious days,
Cut fhort my conqueft, and prevent new praife;
My life, already, ftands the nobleft theme,
To fill long annals of recording fame,
Far northern nations own me for their lord,
And envious factions crouch beneath my fword;
Inferior Pompey yields to me at home,
And only fills a fecond place in Rome.
My country has my high behefts obey'd,
And at my feet her laws obedient laid;
All fovereignty, all honours are my own,
Conful, dictator, I am all alone.
But thou, my only goddefs, and my friend,
Thou, on whom all my fecret prayers attend,
Conceal, oh Fortune! this inglorious end.
Let none on earth, let none beside thee, know
I funk thus poorly to the fhades below.
Difpofe, ye gods! my carcafe as you pleafe,
Deep let it drown beneath these raging feas
I afk no urn my afhes to infold,
Nor marble monuments, nor hrines of gold;
Let but the world, unknowing of my doom,
Expect me ftill, and think I am to come;
So shall my name with terror ftill be heard,
And my return in every nation fear'd.
He spoke, and fudden, wondrous to behold,
High on a tenth huge wave his bark was roll d;
Nor funk again, alternate, as before,
But rufhing, lodg'd, and fix'd upon the fhore.
Rome and his fortune were at once reftor'd,
And earth again receiv'd him for her lord..
Now, through the camp his late arrival told,
The warriors croud, their leader to behold;
In tears, around, the murmuring legions ftand,
And welcome him, with fond complaints, to land.
What means too-daring Cæfar (thus they cry)
To tempt the ruthless seas, and stormy sky ?
What a vile helpless herd had we been left,
Of every hope at once in thee bereft ?
While on thy life so many thousands wait,.
While nations live dependent on thy fate,
While the whole world on thee, their head, rely, 'Tis cruel in thee to confent to die.
And could'st thou not one faithful foldier find,
One equal to his mighty mafter's mind,
One that deferv'd not to be left behind?
While tumbling billows toft thee on the main,
We flept at ease, unknowing of thy pain.
Were we the cause, oh fhame! unworthy we,
That urg'd thee on to brave the raging fea?
Is there a flave whose head thou hold'st so light,
To give him up to this tempeftuous night?
While Cæfar, whom the fubject earth obeys,
To feafons fuch as thefe, his facred felf betrays.
Still wilt thou weary out indulgent heaven,
And scatter all the lavish gods have given?
Doft thou the care of providence employ,
Only to fave thee when the feas run high?
Aufpicious Jove thy wishes would promote ;
Thou ask ft the fafety of a leaky boat :
. He proffers thee the world's fupreme command;
Thy hopes aspire no farther than to land,
And caft thy fhipwreck on th' Hefperian strand.
In kind reproaches thus they waste the night,
Till the gray east disclos'd the breaking light:
Serene the fun his beamy face display'd,
While the tir'd storm and weary waves were laid.
Speedy the Latian chiefs unfurl their fails,
And catch the gently-rifing northern gales:
In fair appearance the tall veffels glide,
The pilots, and the wind, confpire to guide,
And waft them fitly o'er the smoother tide :
Decent they move, like some well-order'd band, 102@
In rang'd battalions marching o'er the land.
Night fell at length, the winds the fails forfook,
And a dead calm the beauteous order broke.
So when, from Strymon's wintery banks, the cranes,
In feather'd legions, cut th' æthereal plains;
To warmer Nile they bend their airy way,
Form'd in long lines, and rank'd in just array:
But if some rushing storm the journey cross,
The wingy leaders all are at a loss:
Now clofe, now loofe, the breaking fquadrons fly, 1030
And scatter in confufion o'er the sky.
The day return'd, with Phoebus Auster rofe,
And hard upon the ftraining canvas blows.
Scudding afore him swift the fleet he bore,
O'er-paffing Lyffus, to Nymphæum's fhore;
There fafe from northern winds, within the port they
While thus united Cæfar's arms appear,
And fortune draws the great decifion near;
Sad Pompey's foul uneafy thoughts infest,
And his Cornelia pains his anxious breast.
To diftant Lesbos fain he would remove,
Far from the war, the partner of his love.
Oh, who can speak, what numbers can reveal,
The tenderness, which pious lovers feel?
Who can their fecret pangs and forrows tell,
With all the croud of cares that in their bofoms dwell?
See what new paffions now the hero knows,
Now first he doubts fuccefs, and fears his foes
Rome and the world he hazards in the strife,
And gives up all to fortune, but his wife.
Oft he prepares to speak, but knows not how,
Knows they muft part, but cannot bid her go;
Defers the killing news with fond delay,
And, lingering, puts off Fate from day to day.
The fleeting fhades began to leave the sky,
And flumber foft forfook the drooping eye :
When, with fond arms, the fair Cornelia preft
Her lord, reluctant, to her fnowy breaft:
Wondering, the found he shunn'd her just embrace,
And felt warm tears upon his manly face.
Heart-wounded with the fudden woe, the griev'd,
And scarce the weeping warrior yet believ'd.
When, with a groan, thus he: My trueft wife,
To fay how much I love thee more than life,
Poorly expreffes what my heart would show,
Since life, alas! is grown my burden now;
That long, too long delay'd, that dreadful doom,
That cruel parting hour at length is come.
Fierce, haughty, and collected in his might,
Advancing Cæfar calls me to the fight.
Haste then, my gentle love, from war retreat;
The Lesbian ifle attends thy peaceful feat:
Nor feek, oh! feek not to increase my cares,
Seek not to change my purpose with thy prayers;
Myself, in vain, the fruitless fuit have try'd,
And my own pleading heart has been deny'd.
onhink not, thy distance will increase thy fear:
Ruin, if ruin comes, will foon be near,
Too foon the fatal news fhall reach thy ear.
Nor burns thy heart with juft and equal fires,
Nor doft thou love as virtue's law requires;
If those foft eyes can ev'n thy husband bear,
Red with the ftains of blood, and guilty war.
When horrid trumpets found their dire alarms,
Shall I indulge my forrows with thy charms,
And rife to battle from thefe tender arms?
Thus mournful, from thee, rather let me go,
And join thy abfence to the public woe.
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