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While fortune, who his triumphs once beheld,
Unchanging fees him leave Pharsalia's field.
Now, difentangled from unwieldy power,
O Pompey! run thy former honours o'er :

At leisure now review the glorious scene,
And call to mind how might; thou hast been.
From anxious toils of empire turn thy care,
And from thy thoughts exclude the murderous war ;
Let the just gods bear witness on thy fide, ୨୨୦
Thy cause no more shall by the sword' be try'd.
Whether sad Afric shall her lofs bemoan,
Or Munda's plains beneath their burden groan,
The guilty bloodíhed shall be all their own.
No more the much-lov'd Pompey's name shall charm
The peaceful world, with one confent, to arm;
Nor for thy fake, nor aw'd by thy command,
But for themselves, the fighting fenate ftand:
The war but one distinction shall afford,
And Liberty, or Cæsar, be the word.

Nor, oh! do thou thy vanquish'd lot deplere, But fly with pleasure from those seas of gore : Look back upon the horror, guiltless thou, And pity Cæfar, for whose fake they flow. With what a heart, what triumph shall he come, 1005 A vićtor, red with Roman blood, to Rome? Though misery thy banishment attends, Though thou shalt die, by thy false Pharian friends; Yet trust securely to the choice of heaven, And know thy loss was for a blessing giv’n : Though flight may seem the warrior's shame and curse; To conquer, in a caule like this, is worfe.



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And, oh! let every mark of grief be spar'd.
May no tear fall, no groan, no figh be heard ;
Still let mankind their Pompey's fate adore, TOIS
And reverence thy fall, ev'n as thy height of power.
Meanwhile survey th' attending world around,
Cities by thee pofsefs’d, and monarchs crown'd:
On Afric, or on Afia, cast thy eye,
And mark the land where thou shalt choose to die, 1020

Larissa first the constant chief beheld,
Still great, though flying from the fatal field :
With loud acclaim her crowds his coming greet,
And, fighing, pour their presents at his feet.
She crowns her altars, and proclaims a feast:
Would put on joy to chear her noble guest ;
But weeps, and begs to share his woes at leak.
So was he lov'd ev’n in his loft estate,
Such faith, Such friendship, on his ruins wait;
With ease Pharsalia's loss might be fupply'd,

While eager nations haften to his fide:
As if misfortune meant to bless him more,
Than all his long prosperity before.
In vain, he cries, you bring the vanquish'd aid;
Henceforth to Cæfar be your homage paid,
Cæfar, who triumphs o'er yon heaps of dead.
With that, his courser urging on to flight,
He vanish'd from the mournful city's fight.
With cries, and loud laments, they fill the air,
And curse the cruel gods, in fierceness of despair. 104

Now in huge lakes Hesperian crimson stood,
And Cæsar's self grew fatiated with blood.





The great patricians fall'n, his pity spar'd
The worthlefs, unresisting, 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 seize the hasty flier's tent,
The leisure of a night, and thinking to prevent.
Nor reck'd he much the weary soldiers toil, 1030
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 sake;
'Tis mine to shew the prey, 'tis yours to take. 1055
'Tis yours, whate'er the vanquish'd foe has left;
•Tis what


valour gain’d, and not my gift. Treasures immense yon wealthy tents enfold, The gems

of Asia, and Hesperian gold; For

you the once-great Pompey's store attends, 1060
With regal spoils of his barbarian friends :
Haste then, prevent the foe, and seize that good,
For which you paid fo well with Roman blood.

He said ; and with the rage of rapine ftung,
The multitude tumultuous rush along.

1065 On swords, and spears, on fires and fons they tread, And all remorfeless spurn the gory

What trench can intercept, what fort withstand
The brutal foldier's rude rapacious hand ;
When eager to his crime's reward he flies, 1070
And, bath'd in blood, demands the horrid prize?

There, wealth collected from the world around,
The desin’d recompence of war, they found.


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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 fpoils they scorn, as worthlefs prey,
And count their wicked labours robb’d of pay.
Here, in patrician tents, plebeians rest,

1086 And regal couches are by ruffians press’d : There impious parricides the bed invade, And fieep 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 Astonishment and dread their souls infest, And guilt fits painful on each heaving breast. Arms, blood, and death, work in the labouring brain; They figh, they start, they strive, and fight it o’er again. Ascending fiends infect the air around,

1090. And hell breathes baleful through the groaning ground: Hence dire affright distracts the warriors souls, Vengeance divine their daring hearts controuls, Snakes hiss, and livid flame tormenting rolls. Each, as his hands in guilt have been imbrued, 1095 By some pale spectre flies all night pursued. In various forms the ghosts unnumber'd groan, The brother, friend, the father, and the son : To every wretch his proper phantom fell, While Cæfar sleeps the general care of hell. Such were his pangs as mad Orestes felt, Ere yet the Scythian altar purg'd his guilt. Such horrors Pentheus, such Agave knew; He when his rage first came, and íhe when her's withdrew.


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Present and future swords his bosom bears,

1105 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 conscience, and with whips of fiends. But soon the visionary horrors pafs, And his first rage with day resumes its place : Again his eyes rejoice to view the lain, And run unweary'd o'er the dreadful plain. He bids his train prepare his impious board, And feasts amidst the heaps of death abhorr'd. IIIS There each pale face at leisure he may know, And still behold the purple current flow. He views the woeful wide horizon round, Then joys that earth is no where to be found, And owns, those gods he ferves, his utmost wish have

crown'd; Still greedy to possess the curs’d delight, To glut his soul, and gratify his sight, The last funereal honours he denies, And poisons with the stench Emathia's skies, Not thus the sworn inveterate foe of Rome, 1125 Refus’d the vanquish'd consul's bones a tomb : His piety the country round beheld, And bright with fires shone Canna's fatal field. But Cæsar's rage from fiercer motives rofe ; These were his countrymen, his worst of foes.

1130 But, oh! relent, forget thy hatred past, And give the wandering shades to rest at last. Nor seek we fingle honours for the dead, At once let nations on the pile be laid :


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