Графични страници
PDF файл
ePub

Rude, o'er his face, his hoary locks were grown,
And duft was caft upon his Roman gown.

She faw, and, fainting, funk in sudden night;

75

Grief stopp'd her breath, and fhut out loathsome light : The loofening nerves no more their force exert,

And motion ceas'd within the freezing heart;
Death kindly feem'd her wishes to obey,

80

And, ftretch'd upon the beach, a corfe fhe lay.
But now the mariners the veffel moor,
And Pompey, landing, views the lonely fhore.
The faithful maids their loud lamentings ceas'd,
And reverendly their ruder grief suppress'd.

85

Straight, while with duteous care they kneel around,
And aife their wretched miftrefs from the ground,
Her lord infolds her with a ftri&t embrace,

And joins his cheek clofe to her lifelefs face:
At the known touch, her failing fenfe returns,
And vital warmth in kindling blushes burns.
At length, from virtue thus he feeks relief,
And kindly chides her violence of grief:

Canft thou then fink, thou daughter of the great,

Sprung from the nobleft guardians of our state;
Canft thou thus yield to the first shock of fate?
Whatever deathless monuments of praise
Thy fex can merit, 'tis in thee to raife.
On man alone life's ruder trials wait,
The fields of battle, and the cares of state;
While the wife's virtue then is only try'd,
When faithlefs fortune quits her husband's fide.
Arm then thy foul, the glorious task to prove,
And learn, thy miferable lord to love.

୨a

94

100

105 Behold

Behold me of my power and pomp bereft,
By all my kings, and by Rome's fathers left:
Oh make that lofs thy glory; and be thou
The only follower of Pompey now.
This grief becomes thee not, while I furvive;
War wounds not thee, fince I am ftill alive :
These tears a dying husband should deplore,
And only fall when Pompey is no more.
'Tis true, my former greatnefs all is loft;
Who weep for that, no love for me can boast,
But mourn the lofs of what they valued most.

Mov'd at her lord's reproof, the matron rose;
Yet, ftill complaining, thus avow'd her woes:
Ah! wherefore was I not much rather led,
A fatal bride, to Cæfar's hated bed?
To thee unlucky, and a curfe, I came,
Unbleft by yellow Hymen's holy flame :
My bleeding Craffus, and his fire, stood by,
And fell Erynnis fhook her torch on high.
My fate on thee the Parthian vengeance draws,
And urges heaven to hate the juster cause.
Ah! my once greatest lord! ah! cruel hour!
Is thy victorious head in fortune's power?
Since miferies my baneful love pursue,
Why did I wed thee, only to undo?
But fee, to death my willing neck I bow;
Atone the angry gods by one kind blow.
Long fince, for thee, my life I would have given;
Yet, let me, yet prevent the wrath of heaven.

[ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

Kill me, and scatter me upon the fea,
So fhall propitious tides thy fleets convey,
Thy kings be faithful, and the world obey.
And thou, where-e'er thy fullen phantom flies,
Oh! Julia! let thy rival's blood fuffice;
Let me the rage of jealous vengeance bear,
But him, thy lord, thy once-lov'd Pompey spare.
She faid, and funk within his arms again;
In ftreams of forrow melt the mournful train :
Ev'n his, the warrior's eyes, were forc'd to yield,
That faw, without a tear, Pharfalia's field.
Now to the ftrand the Mitylenians prefs'd,
And humbly thus bespoke their noble guest :
If, to fucceeding times, our ifle fhall boast
The pledge of Pompey left upon
her coaft,
Difdain not, if thy prefence now we claim,
And fain would confecrate our walls to fame.
Make thou this place in future ftory great,
Where pious Romans may direct their feet,
"To view with adoration thy retreat.

}

140

145

150

This may we plead, in favour of the town;

155

That, while mankind the profperous victor own,

Already, Cæfar's foes avow'd, are we,

Nor add new guilt, by duty paid to thee.
Some fafety too our ambient feas fecure;
Cæfar wants fhips, and we defy his power.
Here may Rome's fcatter'd fathers well unite
And arm against a fecond happier fight.
Our Lesbian youth with ready courage stands,
man thy navies, or recruit thy bands.

To

160

For

For gold, whate'er to facred ufe is lent,

165

Take it, and the rapacious foe prevent.
This only mark of friendship we intreat,
Seek not to fhun us in thy low eftate ;
But let our Lefbos, in thy ruin, prove,

As in thy greatnefs, worthy of thy love.

Much was the leader mov'd, and joy'd to find

Faith had not quite abandon'd human-kind.
To me (he cry'd) for ever were you dear;
Witness the pledge committed to your care:
Here in fecurity I plac'd my home,

My houfhold-gods, my heart, my wife, my Rome.
I know what ranfom might your pardon buy,
And yet I trust you, yet to you I fly.

But, oh! too long my woes you fingly bear;

170

175

}

185

I leave you, not for lands which 1 prefer,
But that the world the common load may fhare.
Lefbos! for ever facred be thy name!
May late pofterity thy truth proclaim!
Whether thy fair example spread around,
Or whether, fingly, faithful thou art found:
For 'tis refolv'd, 'tis fix'd within my mind,
To try the doubtful world, and prove mankind.
Oh! grant, good heaven! if there be one alone,
One gracious power so loft a cause to own,
Grant, like the Lesbians, I my friends may find; 190
Such who, though Cæfar threaten, dare be kind:
Who, with the fame juft hofpitable heart,
May leave me free to enter, or depart.

He ceas'd; and to the fhip his partner bore,
While loud complainings fill the founding fhore. 195

It feem'd as if the nation with her pass'd,
And banishment had laid their island waste.
Their fecond forrows they to Pompey give,
For her, as for their citizen, they grieve.
Ev'n though glad victory had call'd her thence,
And her lord's bidding been the just pretence;
The Lesbian matrons had in tears been drown'd,
And brought her weeping to the watery bound.
So was the lov'd, fo winning was her grace,
Such lowly fweetness dwelt upon her face;
In fuch humility her life the led,

Ev'n while her lord was Rome's commanding head,
As if his fortune were already fled.

Half hid in feas defcending Phoebus lay,

209

205

And upwards half, half downwards shot the day; 210
When wakeful cares revolve in Pompey's foul,
And run the wide world o'er, from pole to pole.
Each realm, each city, in his mind are weigh'd,
Where he may fly, from whence depend on aid.
Weary'd at length beneath the load of woes,
And thofe fad fcenes his future views disclose,
In converfation for relief he fought,

And exercis'd on various themes his thought.
Now fits he by the careful pilot's fide,

215

And asks what rules their watery journey guide; 220 What lights of heaven his art attends to most,

Bound by the Libyan or the Syrian coaft.

To him, intent upon the rolling skies,

The heaven-inftructed fhipman thus replies:

Of all yon multitude of golden stars,

225

Which the wide rounding sphere incessant bears,

The

« ПредишнаНапред »