From the bright orient to the glowing west,
In every nation, every Roman breast
The terrors of that dreadful day confeft.
Where Aponus first springs in fmoky steam,
And full Timavus rolls his nobler ftream
Upon a hill that day, if fame be true,
A learned augur fat the skies to view:
'Tis come, the great event is come (he cry'd)
Our impious chiefs their wicked war decide.
Whether the feer obferv'd Jove's forky flame,
And mark'd the firmament's difcordant frame;
Or whether, in that gloom of fudden night,
The ftruggling fun declar'd the dreadful fight:
From the first birth of morning in the skies,
Sure never day like this was known to rife ;
In the blue vault, as in a volume spread,
Plain might the Latian destiny be read.
Oh Rome! oh people, by the gods affign'd
To be the worthy masters of mankind!
On thee, the heavens with all their fignals wait,
And fuffering nature labours with thy fate.
When thy great names to latest times convey'd,
By fame, or by my verfe immortal made,
In free-born nations juftly shall prevail,
And rouze their paffions with this nobleft tale;
How fhail they fear for thy approaching doom,
As if each paft event were yet to come!
How fhall their bofoms fwell with vaft concern,
And long the doubtful chance of war to learn!
Ev'n then the favouring world with thee shall join,
And every honest heart to Pompey's cause incline.
Defcending, now, the bands in just array, From burnish'd arms reflect the beamy day; In an ill hour they spread the fatal field,
And with portentous blaze the neighbouring mountains gild.
On the left wing, bold Lentulus, their head,
The first and fourth felected legions led :
Lucklefs Domitius, vainly brave in war;
Drew forth the right with unauspicious care:
In the mid battle daring Scipio fought,
With eight full legions from Cilicia brought.
Submiffive here to Pompey's high command,
The warrior undistinguish'd took his stand,
Referv'd to be the chief on Libya's burning fand.
Near the low marshes and Enipeus' flood,
The Pontic horfe and Cappadocian stood.
While kings and tetrarchs proud, a purple train,
Leigemen and vassals to the Latian reign,
Poffefs'd the rifing grounds and drier plain.
Here troops of black Numidians fcour the field,
And bold Iberians narrow bucklers wield;
Here twang the Syrian and the Cretan bow,
And the fierce Gauls provoke their well-known foe. 340 Go, Pompey, lead to death th' unnumber'd hoft,
Let the whole human race at once be loft.
Let nations, upon nations, heap the plain,
And tyranny want subjects for its reign.
Cæfar, as chance ordain'd, that morn decreed 345
The spoiling bands of foragers to lead ;
When, with a fudden, but a glad furprize,
The foe descending ftruck his wondering eyes.
Eager, and burning for unbounded fway,
Long had he borne the tedious war's delay;
Long had he struggled with protracting time,.
That fav'd his country, and deferr'd his crime:
At length he fees the wish'd-for day is come,
To end the ftrife for liberty, and Rome;
Fate's dark myfterious threatenings to explain,
And eafe th' impatience of ambition's pain.
But, when he faw the vast event so nigh,
Unusual horror damp'd his impious joy;
For one cold moment funk his heart fupprefs'd,
And doubt hung heavy on his anxious breast.
Though his past fortunes promife now fuccefs,
Yet Pompey, from his own, expects no less.
His changing thoughts revolve with various cheer,
While these forbid to hope, and those to fear.
At length his wonted confidence returns,
With his first fires his daring bosom burns;
As if fecure of victory, he stands,
And fearless thus befpeaks the listening bands :
Ye warriors! who have made your Cæfar great,
On whom the world, on whom my fortunes wait, 370
To-day, the gods, whate'er you wish, afford,
And fate attends on the deciding fword.
By your firm aid alone your leader stands,
And trufts his all to your long-faithful hands.
This day shall make our promis'd glories good,
The hopes of Rubicon's distinguish'd flood.
For this bleft morn we trusted long to fate,
Deferr'd our fame, and bad the triumph wait.
This day, my gallant friends, this happy day,
Shall the long labours of your arms repay ;
Shall give you back to every joy of life,
To the lov'd offspring and the tender wife;
Shall find my veteran out a fafe retreat,
And lodge his age within a peaceful feat.
The long difpute of guilt shall now be clear'd,
And conqueft fhall the jufter cause reward.
Have you, for me, with fword and fire laid wafte
Your country's bleeding bosom, as you past?
Let the fame fwords as boldly strike to-day,
And the last wounds fhall wipe the first away.
Whatever faction's partial notions are,
No hand is wholly innocent in war.
Yours is the caufe to which my vows are join'd,
I feek to make you free, and masters of mankind.
I have no hopes, no wishes of my own,
But well could hide me in a private gown :
At my expence of famè, exalt your powers,
Let me be nothing, fo the world be yours.
Nor think the task too bloody shall be found,
With eafy glory fhall our arms be crown'd:
Yon hoft come learn'd in academic rules,
A band of difputants from Grecian schools.
To thefe, luxurious eaftern crouds are join'd,
Of many a tongue, and many a differing kind :
Their own first shouts fhall fill each foul with fears,
And their own trumpets shook their tender ears. 406
Unjustly this, a civil war, we call,
Where none but foes of Rome, barbarians, fall,
On then, my friends! and end it at a blow;
Lay these soft, lazy, worthless nations low.
Shew Pompey, that fubdued them, with what eafe
Your valour gains fuch victories as these :
Shew him, if justice still the palm confers,
One triumph was too much for all his wars.
From diftant Tigris fhall Armenians come,
To judge between the citizens of Rome?
Will fierce barbarian aliens wafte their blood,
To make the cause of Latian Pompey good?
Believe me, no. To them we are all the fame,
They hate alike the whole Aufonian Name;
But most thofe haughty masters whom they know,
Who taught their fervile vanquish'd necks to bow.
Mean-while, as round my joyful eyes are roll'd,
None but my try'd companions I behold;
For years in Gaul we made our hard abode,
And many a march in partnership have trod.
Is there a foldier to your chief unknown ?
A fword, to whom I trust not, like my own?
Could I not mark each javelin in the sky,
And fay from whom the fatal weapons fly?
Ev'n now I view aufpicious furies rise,
And rage redoubled flashes in your eyes.
With joy those omens of success J read,
And fee the certain victory decreed;
I fee the purple deluge float the plain,
Huge piles of carnage, nations of the flain :
Dead chiefs, with mangled monarchs, I furvey,
And the pale fenate crowns the glorious day.
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