But if thou with to lay thy greatnefs down,
To fome more just fucceffion yield thy crown;
Thy rival fifter willingly fhall reign,
And fave our Ægypt from a foreign chain.
As now, at firft, in neutral peace we lay,
Nor would be Pompey's friends, nor Cæfar's prey.
Vanquish'd, where-e'er his fortune has been try'd,
And driv'n, with fcorn, from all the world befide,
By Cæfar chac'd, and left by his allies,
To us a baffled vagabond he flies.
The poor remaining fenate loath his fight,
And ruin'd monarchs curfe his fatal flight:
While thousand fantoms from th' unbury'd flain,
Who feed the vultures of Emathia's plain,
Difaftrous ftill purfue him in the rear,
And urge his foul with horror and defpair.
To us for refuge now he feeks to run,
And would once more with Ægypt be undone.
Rouse then, oh! Ptolemy, reprefs the wrong;
He thinks we have enjoy'd our peace too long:
And therefore kindly comes, that we may share
The crimes of flaughter, and the woes of war.
His friendship fhewn to thee fufpicions draws,
And makes us feem too guilty of his caufe:
Thy crown bestow'd, the victor may impute;
The fenate gave it, but at Pompey's fuit.
Nor, Pompey thou thyfelf fhall think it hard,
If from thy aid, by fate, we are debarr'd.
We follow where the god, constraining, lead;
We ftrike at thine, but with 'twere Cæfar's head. 710
Our weakness this, this fate's compulsion call;
We only yield to him who conquers all.
Then doubt not if thy blood we mean to spill;
Power awes us; if we can, we must, and will.
What hopes thy fond mistaking foul betray'd,
To put thy trust in Ægypt's feeble aid?
Our flothful nation, long difus'd to toil,
With pain, fuffice to till their flimy foil,
Our idle force due modesty should teach,
Nor dare to aim beyond its humble reach.
Shall we refift where Rome was forc'd to yield,
And make us parties to Pharfalia's field?
We mix'd not in the fatal ftrife before:
And shall we, when the world has given it o'er?
Now! when we know th' avenging victor's power?
Nor do we turn, unpitying, from diftrefs;
We fly not Pompey's woes, but feek success.
The prudent on the profperous ftill attends,
And none but fools choose wretches for their friends.
He faid; the vile affembly all affent,
And the boy-king his glad concurrence lent.
Fond of the royalty his flaves bestow'd,
And by new power of wickedness made proud.
Where Cafium high o'erlooks the shoaly strand,
A bark with armed ruffians ftraight is mann'd,
And the task trufted to Achillas' hand.
Can then Ægyptian fouls thus proudly dare!
Is Rome, ye gods! thus fall'n by Civil War!
Can you to Nile transfer the Roman guilt,
And let fuch blood by cowards hands be spilt ?
Some kindred murderer at least afford,
And let him fall by Cæfar's worthy fword,
And thou, inglorious, feeble, beardless boy!
Dar't thou thy hand in fuch a deed employ?
Does not thy trembling heart, with horror, dread 745
Jove's thunder, grumbling o'er thy guilty head?
Had not his arms with triumphs oft been crown'd,
And ev'n the vanquish'd world his conquest own'd;
Had not the reverend fenate call'd him head,
And Cæfar given fair Julia to his bed,
He was a Roman ftil: a name fhould be
For ever facred to a king, like thee.
Ah, fool! thus blindly by thyfelf undone,
Thou feek'ft his ruin, who upheld thy throne:
He only could thy feeble power maintain,
Who gave thee firft o'er Ægypt's realm to reign.
The feamen, now, advancing near to fhore,
Strike the wide fail, and ply the plunging oar;
When the falfe mifcreants the navy meet,
And with diffembled chear the Roman greet.
They feign their hofpitable land address'd,
With ready friendship, to receive her guest;
Excufing much an inconvenient shore,
Where fhoals lie thick, and meeting currents roar:
From his tall fhip, unequal to the place,
They beg him to their lighter bark to pass.
Had not the gods, unchangeably, decreed
Devoted Pompey in that hour to bleed,
A thousand signs the danger near foretel,
Seen by his fad presaging friends too well.
Had their low fawning juftly been defign'd,
If truth could lodge in an Ægyptian mind,
Their king himself with all his fleet had come,
To lead, in pomp, his benefactor home.
But thus Fate will'd; and Pompey chofe to bear 775
A certain death, before uncertain fear.
While, now, aboard the hoftile boat he goes,
To follow him, the frantic matron vows,
And claims her partnership in all his woes.
But, oh! forbear (he cries) my love, forbear;
Thou and my fon remain in fafety here.
Let this old head the danger firft explore,
And prove the faith of yon' fufpected shore.
He spoke; but she, unmov'd at his commands,
Thus loud exclaiming, ftretch'd her eager hands: 785
Whither, inhuman! whither art thou gone?
Still must I weep our common griefs alone?
Joy still, with thee, forfakes my boding heart;
And fatal is the hour whene'er we part.
Why did thy veffel to my Lefbos turn?
Why was I from the faithful ifland borne ?
Must I all lands, all shores, alike, forbear,
And only on the feas thy forrows share?
Thus, to the winds, loud plain'd her fruitless tongue,
While eager from the deck on high she hung;
Trembling with wild astonishment and fear,
She dares not, while her parting lord they bear,
Turn her eyes from him once, or fix them there.
On him his anxious navy all are bent,
And wait, folicitous, the dire event.
No danger aim'd against his life they doubt;
Care for his glory only, fills their thought :
They wish he may not stain his name renown'd,
By mean fubmiffion to the boy he crown'd.
Juft as he enter'd o'er the veffel's fide,
Hail, general! the curs'd Septimius cry'd,
A Roman once in generous warfare bred,
And oft in arms by mighty Pompey led ;
But now (what vile dishonour must it bring)
The ruffian flave of an Ægyptian king.
Fierce was he, horrible, inur'd to blood,
And ruthless as the favage of the wood.
Oh, Fortune! who but would have call'd thee kind,
And thought thee mercifully now inclin'd,
When thy o'er-ruling providence withheld
This hand of mischief from Pharfalia's field?
But, thus, thou scatter'st thy destroying fwords,
And every land thy victims thus affords.
Shall Pompey at a tyrant's bidding bleed!
Can Roman hands be to the task decreed !
Ev'n Cæfar, and his gods, abhor the deed.
Say you! who with the stain of murder brand
Immortal Brutus's avenging hand,
What monftrous title, yet to fpeech unknown,
To latest times shall mark Septimius down!
Now in the boat defencelefs Pompey fate,
Surrounded and abandon'd to his fate.
Nor long they hold him in their power, aboard,
Ere every villain drew his ruthlefs fword:
The chief perceiv'd their purpose foon, and spread 830 His Roman gown with patience, o'er his head:
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