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Strike home, he cries, and let your swords erase
Each well-known feature of the kindred face:
Nor waste your fury on the vulgar band;
See ! where the hoary doting senate stand;
There laws and right at once you may confound, 835
And liberty shall bleed at every wound.

The curs'd destroyer spoke ; and, at the word,
The purple nobles sunk beneath the fword :
The dying patriots groan upon the ground,
Illustrious naines, for love of laws renown'd. 840
The great Metelli and Torquati bleed,
Chiefs worthy, if the state had so decreed,
And Pompey were not there, mankind to lead.

Say thou! thy finking country's only prop, Glory of Rome, and liberty's last hope ; What helm, oh Brutus ! could, amidst the croud, Thy sacred undistinguish'd visage Throud ? Where fought thy arm that day? But, ah ! forbear! Nor rush unwary on the pointed spear; Seek not to halten on untimely fate,

850 But patient for thy own Emathia wait : Nor hunt fierce Cæsar on this bloody plain, To-day thy steel pursues his life in vain. Somewhat is wanting to the tyrant yet, To make the measure his crimes complete; As yet he has not every law defy'd, Nor reach'd the utmost heights of daring pride. Ere long thou shalt behold him Rome's proud lord, And ripen’d by ambition for thy sword : Then, thy griev'd country vengeance shall demand, 860 And ask the victim at thy righteous hand.





Among huge heaps of the Patrician Nain, And Latian chiefs, who strew'd that purple plain, Recording story has distinguish'd well, How brave, unfortunate Domitius fell. In every loss of Pompey still he shar'd, And dy'd in liberty, the best reward ; Though vanquish'd oft by Cæsar, ne'er enslav'd, Ev'n to the last, the tyrant's power he brav'd : Mark'd o'er with many a glorious streaming wound, 870 In pleasure sunk the warrior to the ground; No longer forc'd on vilest terms to live, For chance to doom, and Cæsar to forgive. Him, as he pass’d insulting o'er the field, Rolld in his blood, the victor proud beheld : And can, he cry’d, the fierce Domitius fall, Forsake his Pompey, and expecting Gaul? Must the war lose that still successful sword, And my neglected province want a lord ? He spoke; when, lifting slow his closing eyes, 880 Fearless the dying Roman thus replies : Since wickedness stands unrewarded yet, Nor Cæsar's arms their wish'd success have met; Free and rejoicing to the shades I

go, And leave my chief still equal to his foe; And if my hopes divine thy doom aright, Yet shalt thou bow thy vanquilh'd head ere night. Dire punithments the righteous gods decree, For injur'd Rome, for Pompey, and for me; In hell's dark realms thy tortures I shall know, 890 And hear thy ghost lamenting loud below.




He said ; and soon the leaden Neep prevailid,
And everlasting night his eyelids seal'd.

But, oh! what grief the ruin can deplore !
What verse can run the various flaughter o’er !
For lesler woes our sorrows may we keep;
No tears suffice, a dying world to weep.
In differing groups ten thousand deaths arise,
And horrors manifold the foul surprize.
Here the whole man is opend at a wound,

And gushing bowels pour upon the ground:
Another through the gaping jaws is gor’d,
And in his utmost throat receives the sword :
At once, a single blow a third extends;
The fourth a living trunk dismember'd stands.

905 Some in their breasts erect the javelin bear, Some cling to earth with the transfixing spear. Here, like a fountain, springs a purple flood, Spouts on the foe, and stains his arms with blood. There horrid brethren on their brethren prey; 910 One starts, and hurls a well-known head away. While some detested son, with impious ire, Lops by the shoulders close his hoary fire : Ev'n his rude fellows damn the cursed deed, And bastard-born the murderer aread.

915 No private house its loss lamented then, But count the Nain by nations, not by men. Here Grecian streams, and Asiatic run, And Roman torrents drive the deluge on. More than the world at once was given away, And late posterity was lost that day,

A race



A race of future slaves receiv'd their doom,
And children yet unborn were overcome.
How shall our miserable fons complain,
That they are born beneath a tyrant's reign? 925
Did our base hands, with justice shall they fay,
The sacred cause of liberty betray ?
Why have our fathers given us up a prey ?
Their age, to ours, the curse of bondage leaves ;
Themselves were cowards, and begot us slaves.

'Tis just; and Fortune, that impos'd a lord,
One struggle for their freedom might afford;
Might leave their hands their proper cause to fight,
And let them keep, or lose themselves, their right.

But Pompey, now, the fate of Rome descry'd, 935
And saw the changing gods forsake her side.
Hard to believe, though from a rising ground
He view'd the universal ruin round,
In crimson streams he saw destruction run,
And in the fall of thousands felt his own.

940 Nor wish'd he, like most wretches in despair, The world one common mnisery might share : But with a generous, great, exalted mind, Befought the gods to pity poor mankind, To let him die, and leave the rest behind : This hope came smiling to his anxious breast, For this his earnest vows were thus address'd. Spare man, ye gods ! oh, let the nations live! Let me be wretched, but let Rome survive. Or if this head suffices not alone, My wife, my sons, your anger shall atone :




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If blood the yet unsated war demand,
Behold my pledges left in fortune's hand !
Ye cruel powers, who urge me with your hate,
At length behold me crush'd beneath the weight: 955
Give then your long-pursuing vengeance o'er,
And spare the world, since I can lose no more.

So faying, the tumultuous field he cross’d,
And warn’d from battle his despairing hoft.
Gladly the pains of death he had explorid, 960
And fall’n undaunted on his pointed sword;
Had he not fear'd th' example might succeed,
And faithful nations by his side would bleed.
Or did his swelling soul disdain to die,
While his insulting father stood so nigh ? 965
Fly where he will, the gods shall still pursue,
Nor his pale head shall 'scape the victor's view.
Or else, perhaps, and Fate the thought approv'd,
For her dear fake he fled, whom best he lov'd :
Malicious Fortune to his wish agreed,

And gave him in Cornelia's fight to bleed.
Borne by his winged steed at length away,
He quits the purple plain, and yields the day.
Fearless of danger, still secure and great,
His daring soul supports his lost estate;

Nor groans his breast, nor swell his eyes with tears,
But still the same majestic form he wears.
An awful grief sat decent in his face,
Such as became his loss, and Rome's disgrace :
His mind, unbroken, keeps her constant frame, 980
In greatness and misfortune still the same;


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