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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,

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Whether the trumpet's sound too long had ceas'd, 340
And laughter slept in unaccustom'd reft:
Or whether, arrogant by mischief made,
The soldier held his guilt but half repay’d:
Whilst avarice and hope of bribes prevail,
Turn against Cæsar, and his cause, the scale,
And set the mercenary sword to sale.
Nor, e'er before, so truly could he read
What dangers (trow those paths the mighty tread.
Then, first he found, on what a faithless base
Their nodding towers ambition's builders place: 350
He who so late, a potent faétion's head,
Drew in the nations, and the legions led ;
Now stript of all, beheld in every hand.
The warriors weapons at their own command;
Nor service now, nor safety they afford,

355
But leave him single to his guardian sword.
Nor is this rage the grumbling of a croud,
That Thun to tell their discontents aloud;
Where all with gloomy looks suspicious go,
And dread of an informer chokes their woe : 360
P4,

But,

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

Among the rest, one thus : At length 'tis time 365
To quit thy cause, oh Cæsar! and our crimne :
The world around for foes thou hast explor'd,
And lavishly expos'd us to the sword;
To make thee great, a worthless crowd we fall,
Scatter'd o'er Spain, o'er Italy, and Gaul;

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 :

380

400

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

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 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

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 ?

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4.55

Give o'er at length, and let thy labours cease, 450
Nor vex the world, but learn to suffer 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 shun thy face.

High on a turfy bank the chicf 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 noisy herd! who in fo fierce a strain

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

your

useless swords in Cæsar's breast. 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, 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

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