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Halte then, with glory, to your

destin'd end,
And proudly from your

humbler urns descend;
Bold in superior virtue thail you come,
And trample on the demigods of Rome.
Ah! what thall it import the mighty dead,
Or by the Nile or Tiber to be laid ?
'Tis only for a grave your wars are made.
Seek not to know what for thyself reinains, 1225
That shall be told in fair Sicilia's plains;
Prophetic there, thy father's shade shall rise,
In awful vision to thy wondering eyes :
He shall thy fate reveal; though doubting yet,
Where he may best advise thee to retreat. 1230
In vain to various climates shall you run,
In vain pursuing Fortune strive to fhun,
In Europe, Afric, Alia, still undone.
Wide as your triumphs shall your ruins lie,
And all in distant regions shall


Ah, wretched race ! to whom the world can yield
No safer refuge, than Emathia's field.

He said, and with a filent, mournful look,
A last dismission from the hag bespoke.
Nor can the sprite, discharg'd by death's cold hand, 1240
Again be subject to the same command;
But charms and magic herbs must lend their aid,
And render back to rest the troubled shade.
A pile of hollow'd wood Erietho builds,
The foul with joy its mangled carcase yields ; 1245
She bids the kindling flames ascend on high,
And leaves the weary wretch at length to die.


Then, while the secret dark their footsteps hides,
Homeward the youth, all pale for fear, she guides ;
And, for the light began to streak the east,

125° With potent spells the dawning the repress’d; (Commanded night's obedient queen to stay, And, till they reach'd the camp, withheld the rising day,


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In the Seventh Book is told, first, Pompey's dream

the night before the battle of Pharsalia ; after that, the impatient desire of his army to engage, which is reinforced by Tully. Pompey, though against his own opinion and inclination, agrees to a battle. 'Then follows the speech of each general to his army, and the battle itself: the flight of Pompey; Cæsar's behaviour after his victory.; and an invective against him, and the very country of Theffaly, for being the scene (according to this and other authors) of so many misfortunes to the people of Rome,

Uprear’d the mournful sun his cloudy head;
He ficken’d to behold Emathia's plain,
And would have fought the backward east again :
Full oft he turn'd him from the destin'd race, 5
And wish'd some dark eclipse might veil his radiant face.

Pompey, meanwhile, in pleasing visions past
The night, of all his happy nights the last.
It seem'd, as if, in all his former state,
In his own theatre secure he fate :
About his side unnumber'd Romans croud,
And, joyful, thout his much-lovod name aloud;


The echoing benches seem to ring around,
And his charın'd ears devour the pleasing sound.
Such both himself, and such the people seem, 35
In the false prospect of the feigning dream;
As when in early manhood's beardlefs bloom,
He stood the darling hope and joy of Rome.
When fierce Sertorius by his arms fuppreft,
And Spain subdued, the conqueror confeft:
When rais'd with honours never known before,
The consul's purple, yet a youth, he wore :
When the pleas'd fenate fat with new delight,
To view the triumph of a Roman knight.

Perhaps, when our good days no longer last, 25
The mind runs backward, and enjoys the past :
Perhaps, the riddling visions of the night
With contrarieties delude our fight;
And when fair scenes of pleasure they disclofe,
Pain they foretel, and sure ensuing woes.
Or was it not, that, since the fates ordain
Pompey should never see his Rome again,
One last good office yet they meant to do,

gave him in a dream this parting view ? Oh, may no trumpet bid the leader wake!

35 Long, let him long the blissful flumber take ! Too foon the morrow's fleepless night will come, Full fraught with Naughter, misery, and Rome; With horror, and dismay, those mades shall rise, And the loft.battle live before his eyes.

40 How blest his fellow-citizens had been, Though but in dreams, their Pompey to have seen!




Oh! that the gods, in pity, would allow,
Such long-try'd friends their destiny to know;
So each to each might their sad thoughts convey, 45
And make the most of their last mournful day.
But now, unconscious of the ruin nigh,
Within his native land he thinks to die :
While her fond hopes with confidence presume,
Nothing fo terrible from fate can come,
As to be robb’d of her loy'd Pompey's tomb.
Had the fad city Fate's decree foreknown,
What floods, faft falling, fhould her lofs bemoan !
Then should the lusty youth, and fathers hoar,
With mingling tears, their chief renown'd deplore ; 55
Maids, matrons, wives, and babes, a helpless train,
As once for godlike Brutus, should complain ;
Their tresses should they tear, their bofoms beat,

cry loud-wailing in the doleful street.
Nor shalt thou, Rome, thy gushing sorrows keep, 60
Though aw'd by Cæsar, and forbid to weep ;
Though, while he tells thee of thy. Pompey dead,
He shakes his threatening fauchion o'er thy head.
Lamenting crouds the conqueror shall meet,
And with a peal of groans his triuniph greet ;
In fad procellion, fighing shall they go,
And stain his laurels with the streams of woe.

But now, the fainting Itars at length gave way,
And hid their vanquish'd fires in beamy day;
When round the leader's tent the legions croud, 70
And, urg'd by fate, demand the fight aloud.
Wretches ! that long their little life to waste,
And hurry on those hours that fly too fast!




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