The great patricians fall'n, his pity spar'd
The worthlefs, unrefifting, vulgar herd.
Then, while his glowing fortune yet was warm, 1045
And scattering terror spread the wild alarm,
Straight to the hostile camp his way he bent,
Careful to feize the hafty flier's tent,
The leifare of a night, and thinking to prevent.
Nor reck'd he much the weary foldiers toil,
But led them prone, and greedy to the spoil,
Behold, he cries, our victory complete,
The glorious recompence attends you yet:
Much have you done to-day, for Cæfar's fake;
'Tis mine to fhew the prey, 'tis yours to take.
'Tis yours, whate'er the vanquish'd foe has left;
'Tis what
your valour gain'd, and not my gift.
Treasures immenfe yon wealthy tents enfold,
The gems of Afia, and Hefperian gold;
For you the once-great Pompey's store attends,
With regal spoils of his barbarian friends:
Hafte then, prevent the foe, and seize that good,
For which you paid fo well with Roman blood.
He faid; and with the rage of rapine ftung,
The multitude tumultuous rush along.
On fwords, and spears, on fires and fons they tread,
And all remorfelefs fpurn the gory dead.
What trench can intercept, what fort withstand
The brutal foldier's rude rapacious hand;
When eager to his crime's reward he flies,
And, bath'd in blood, demands the horrid prize?
There, wealth collected from the world around,
The deftin'd recompence of war, they found.
But, oh! not golden Arimaspus' store,
Nor all the Tagus or rich Iber pour,
Can fill the greedy victor's griping hands :
Rome, and the capitol, their pride demands;
All other spoils they scorn, as worthless prey,
And count their wicked labours robb'd of pay.
Here, in patrician tents, plebeians reft,
And regal couches are by ruffians prefs'd :
There impious parricides the bed invade,
And sleep where late their flaughter'd fires were laid. Meanwhile the battle stands in dreams renew'd,
And Stygian horrors o'er their flumbers brood. 1085 Aftonishment and dread their fouls infeft,
And guilt fits painful on each heaving breaft.
Arms, blood, and death, work in the labouring brain;
They figh, they start, they ftrive, and fight it o'er again.
Afcending fiends infect the air around,
And hell breathes baleful through the groaning ground:
Hence dire affright diftra&ts the warriors fouls,
Vengeance divine their daring hearts controuls,
Snakes hifs, and livid flame tormenting rolls.
Each, as his hands in guilt have been imbrued, 1095
By fome pale fpeftre flies all night purfued.
In various forms the ghofts unnumber'd groan,
The brother, friend, the father, and the fon:
To every wretch his proper phantom fell,
While Cæfar fleeps the general care of hell.
Such were his pangs as mad Oreftes felt,
Ere yet the Scythian altar purg'd his guilt.
Such horrors Pentheus, fuch Agave knew;
He when his rage first came, and she when her's withdrew.
Prefent and future fwords his bofom bears,
And feels the blow that Brutus now defers.
Vengeance, in all her pomp of pain, attends;
To wheels the binds him, and with vultures rends,
With racks of confcience, and with whips of fiends.
But foon the vifionary horrors pafs,
And his first rage with day refumes its place:
Again his eyes rejoice to view the flain,
And run unweary'd o'er the dreadful plain.
He bids his train prepare his impious board,
And feafts amidft the heaps of death abhorr'd.
There each pale face at leisure he may know,
And ftill behold the purple current flow.
He views the woeful wide horizon round,
Then joys that earth is no where to be found,
And owns, thofe gods he ferves, his utmost wish have crown'd;
Still greedy to poffefs the curs'd delight,
To glut his foul, and gratify his fight,
The laft funereal honours he denies,
And poisons with the stench Emathia's skies.
Not thus the fworn inveterate foe of Rome,
Refus'd the vanquish'd conful's bones a tomb :
His piety the country round beheld,
And bright with fires fhone Cannæ's fatal field.
But Cæfar's rage from fiercer motives rofe;
These were his countrymen, his worst of foes.
But, oh! relent, forget thy hatred past,
And give the wandering fhades to rest at last.
Nor feek we fingle honours for the dead,
At once let nations on the pile be laid :
To feed the flame, let heapy forests rise,
Far be it seen to fret the ruddy skies,
And grieve defpairing Pompey where he flies.
Know too, proud conqueror, thy wrath in vain
Strews with unbury'd carcafes the plain.
What is it to thy malice, if they burn,
Rot in the field, or moulder in the urn? -
The forms of matter all diffolving die,
And loft in nature's blending bofom lie.
Though now thy cruelty denies a grave,
Thefe and the world one common lot fhall have;
One last appointed flame, by Fate's decree,
Shall wafte yon azure heavens, this earth, and fea;
Shall knead the dead up in one mingled mass,
Where stars and they shall undistinguish'd pass.
And though thou fcorn their fellowship, yet know,
High as thy own can foar thefe fouls fhall
go;
Or find, perhaps, a better place below.
Death is beyond thy Goddess Fortune's power,
And parent Earth receives whate'er the bore.
Nor will we mourn thofe Romans fate, who lie
Beneath the glorious covering of the sky;
That ftarry arch for ever round them turns,
A nobler fhelter far than tombs or urns.
But wherefore parts the loathing victor hence ? Does laughter ftrike too ftrongly on thy fenfe; 1160 Yet ftay, yet breathe the thick infectious ftream, Yet quaff with joy the blood-polluted steam. But fee, they fly! the daring warriors yield ! And the dead heaps drive Cæfar from the field!
Now to the prey, gaunt wolves, a howling train, 1165 Speed hungry from the far Bistonian plain ; From Pholoe the tawny lion comes,
And growling bears forsake their darksome homes:
With thefe, lean dogs in herds obscene repair,
And every kind that fnuffs the tainted air.
For food the cranes their wonted flight delay,
That erft to warmer Nile had wing'd their way:
With them the feather'd race convene from far,
Who gather to the prey, and wajt on war.
Ne'er were fuch flocks of vultures seen to fly,
And hide with spreading plumes the crouded sky:
Gorging on limbs in every tree they sat,
And drop'd raw morfels down, and gory
Oft their tir'd talons, loofening as they fled,
Rain'd horrid offals on the victor's head.
But while the flain fupply'd too full a feast,
The plenty bred fatiety at laft;
The ravenous feeders riot at their eafe,
And fingle out what dainties best may please.
Part borne away, the reft neglected lie,
For noon-day funs, and parching winds, to dry;
Till length of time shall wear them quite away,
And mix them with Emathia's common clay.
Oh fatal Theffaly! Oh land abhorr'd!
How have thy fields the hate of heaven incurr'd; 1190
That thus the gods to thee destruction doom,
And load thee with the curfe of falling Rome!
Still to new crimes, new horrors, doft thou haste,
When yet thy former mifchiefs fcarce were past.
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