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To other wars the victor now succeeds, And his proud eagles from Iberia leads : When the chang'd gods his ruin seem'd to threat, And cross the long successful course of fate. Amidst his camp, and fearless of his foes, 335 Sudden he saw where inborn dangers rose, He saw those troops that long had faithful stood, Friends to his cause, and encmies to good,
Whether the trumpet's sound too long had ceas'd, 340
Fut, bold in numbers, proudly they appear,
Among the rest, one thus : At length 'tis time 365
370 In every clime beneath the spacious sky, Our leader conquers, and his soldiers die. What boots our march beneath the frozen zone, Or that lost blood which stains the Rhine and Rhone! When scarr'd with wounds, and worn with labours
hard, We come with hopes of recompence prepar'd, Thou giv'it us war, more war, for our reward. Though purple rivers in thy cause we spilt, And stain'd our horrid hands in every guilt; With unavailing wickedness we toil'd; In vain the gods, in vain the senate spoil'd ; Of virtue, and reward, alike bereft, Our pious poverty is all we ’ve left, Say to what height thy daring arms would rise ? If Rome 's too little, what can e'er fuífice ? 385 Oh, see at length! with pity, Calar, fee, These withering arms, there 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,
390 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 babes and weeping wives be by, To close our drooping eyelids when we die.. 395 Be merciful, and let disease afford Some other way to die, beside 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 forne more monstrous mischief
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 inspir'd such thoughts as these : 405 What laws, what oaths, can urge their feeble bands, To hinder these determin’d daring hands ? That Cæsar, 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; 410 Guilt equal, gives equality of state. Nor shall his foul ingratitude prevail, Nor weigh our merits in his partial scale; He views our labours with a scornful glance, And calls our victories the works of chance : 415 But his proud heart, henceforth, Mall learn to own, His power, his fate, depends on us alone. Yes, Cælar, spite of all those rods that wait, With mean obfequious service, on thy state ;
Spite of thy gods, and thee, the war Mall cease, 420 And we thy soldiers 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 absent chief requir’d.
Permit it thus, ye righteous gods, to be ; 4.25 Let wicked hands fulfil your great decree; And, fince loft faith and virtue are no more, Let Cæsar's bands the public peace restore. What leader had not now been chill'd with fear, And heard this tumult with the last despair ? 43 But Cæsar, form’d for perils hard and great, Headlong to drive, and brave opposing fate; While yet with fiercelt fires their furies flame, Secure, and scornful of the danger, came. Nor was he wroth to see the madness rise,
435 And mark the vengeance threatening in their eyes; With pleasure could he crown their curs designs, With
rapes of matrons, and the spoils of shrines; Had they but ask'd it, well he could approve The waste and plunder of Tarpeian Jove : 440 No mischief he, no facrilege, denies, But would himself bestow the horrid prize. With joy he sees their souls by rage poffeft, Sooths and indulges every frantic breast, And only fears what reason may suggeft. Still, Cæsar, wilt thou tread the paths of blood ? Wilt thou, thou singly, hate thy country's good! Shall the rude soldier first of war complain, And teach thee to be pitiful in vain ?
Give o'er at length, and let thy labours cease, 450
High on a turfy bank the chicf was rear'd,
466 Against your absent 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
useless swords in Cæsar's breast. 465 But wherefore
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, 470 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.
475 Behold, what crouds on flying Pompey wait, What multitudes attend his abject state ! And shall success, and Cæsar, droop the while ? Shall I want numbers to divide the spoil, And rеар the fruits of your forgotten toil? 5