And when the curs'd Achillas pierc'd his breaft,
His rifing indignation clofe reprefs'd.
No fighs, no groans, his dignity profan'd,
Nor tears his still unfully'd glory ftain'd:
Unmov'd and firm he fix'd him on his feat,
And dy'd, as when he liv'd and conquer'd, great.
Meanwhile, within his equal parting foul,
These latest pleasing thoughts revolving roll.
In this my strongest trial, and my last,
As in fome theatre I here am plac'd :
The faith of Ægypt, and my fate, shall be
A theme for prefent times, and late pofterity.
Much of my former life was crown'd with praise,
And honours waited on my early days :
Then, fearless, let me this dread period meet,
And force the world to own the fcene complete.
Nor grieve, my heart! by fuch bafe hands to bleed;
Whoever strikes the blow, 'tis Cæfar's deed.
What, though this mangled carcafe shall be torn, 850
Thefe limbs be toft about for public fcorn;
My long profperity has found its end,
And death comes opportunely, like a friend :
It comes, to fet me free from fortune's power,
And gives, what she can rob me of no more.
My wife and fon behold me now, 'tis true;
Oh! may no tears, no groans, my fate purfue!
My virtue rather let their praise approve,
Let them admire my death, and my remembrance love.
Such conftancy in that dread hour remain'd,
And, to the laft, the ftruggling foul fuftain'd.
Not fo the matron's feebler powers reprefs'd The wild impatience of her frantic breast: With every ftab her bleeding heart was torn, With wounds much harder to be feen, than borne. 865 "Tis I, 'tis I have murder'd him! (fhe cries) My love the fword and ruthless hand supplies. 'Twas I allur'd him to my fatal ifle, That cruel Cæfar firft might reach the Nile; For Cæfar fure is there; no hand but his Has right to fuch a parricide as this. But whether Cæfar, or whoe'er thou art, Thou haft miftook the way to Pompey's heart: That facred pledge in my fad bofom lies,
There plunge thy dagger, and he more than dies. 875
Me too, moft worthy of thy fury know,
The partner of his arms, and fworn your foe.
Of all our Roman wives, I fingly bore
The camp's fatigue, the fea's tempeftuous roar:
No dangers, not the victor's wrath, I fear'd;
What mighty monarchs durft not do, I dar'd.
These guilty arms did their glad refuge yield,
And clafp'd him, flying from Pharfalia's field.
Ah, Pompey! doft thou thus thy faith reward?
Shalt thou be doom'd to die, and I be fpar'd?
But Fate fhall many means of death afford,
Nor want th' affiftance of a tyrant's fword.
And you, my friends, in pity, let me leap
Hence headlong, down amidst the tumbling deep :
Or to my neck the strangling cordage tie;
If their be any friend of Pompey nigh,
Transfix me, ftab me, do but let me die.
My lord my husband!-Yet thou art not dead;
And fee! Cornelia is a captive led :
From thee their cruel hands thy wife detain,
Referv'd to wear th' insulting victor's chain.
She spoke; and fiiffening funk in cold despair;
Her weeping maids the lifeless burden bear;
While the pale mariners the bark unmoor,
Spread every fail, and fly the faithless shore.
Nor agonies, nor livid death, disgrace
The facred features of the hero's face;
In the cold vifage, mournfully ferene;
The fame indignant majesty was feen;
There virtue ftill unchangeable abode,
And fcorn'd the fpite of every partial god.
The bloody business now complete and done, New Furies urge the fierce Septimius on. He rends the robe that veil'd the hero's head, And to full view expos'd the recent dead; Hard in his horrid gripe the face he prefs'd, While yet the quivering mufcles life confefs'd : He drew the dragging body down with haste, Then cross a rower's feat the neck he plac'd; There, aukward, haggling, he divides the bone 915 (The headman's art was then but rudely known). Straight on the spoil his Pharian partner flies, And robs the heartlefs villain of his prize. The head, his trophy, proud Achillas bears; Septimius an inferior drudge appears, And in the meaner mischief poorly shares. Caught by the venerable locks, which grow, In hoary ringlets, on his generous brow,
To Ægypt's impious king that head they bear,
That laurels us'd to bind, and monarchs fear.
Thofe facred lips, and that commanding tongue,
On which the listening Forum oft has hung;
That tongue which could the world with ease restrain,
And ne'er commanded war or peace in vain;
That face, in which success came fmiling home, 930
And doubled every joy it brought to Rome;
Now pale and wan, is fix'd upon a spear,
And borne, for public view, aloft in air.
The tyrant, pleas'd, beheld it; and decreed
To keep this pledge of his detefted deed.
His flaves ftraight drain the ferous parts away,
And arm the wasting flesh against decay ;
Then drugs and gums through the void veffels pass,
And for duration fix the stiffening mass.
Inglorious boy! degenerate and base!
Thou laft and worst of the Lagaan race!
Whose feeble throne, ere long, fhall be compell'd,
To thy lafcivious fifter's reign to yield :
Canft thou, with altars, and with rites divine,
The rash vain youth of Macedon inshrine;
Can Ægypt fuch ftupendous fabrics build;
Can her wide plains with pyramids be fill'd;
Canft thou, beneath such monumental pride,
Thy worthless Ptolomæan fathers hide;
While the great Pompey's headless trunk is tofs'd 950
In fcorn, unbury'd, on thy barbarous coast?
Was it so much? Could not thy care fuffice,
To keep him whole, and glut his father's eyes?
In this, his fortune ever held the fame,
Still wholly kind, or wholly cross, she came.
Patient, his long prosperity she bore,
But kept this death, and this sad day, in store.
No meddling god did e'er his power employ,
To ease his forrows, or to damp his joy;
Unmingled came the bitter and the sweet,
And all his good and evil was complete.
No fooner was he ftruck by fortune's hand,
But, fee! he lies unbury'd on the fand;
Rocks tear him, billows tofs him up and down,
And Pompey by a headless trunk is known.
Yet ere proud Cæfar touch'd the Pharian Nile,
Chance found his mangled foe a funeral pile :
In pity half, and half in fcorn, she gave
A wretched, to prevent a nobler grave.
Cordus, a follower long of Pompey's fate,
(His quæftor in Idalian Cyprus late)
From a close cave, in covert where he lay,
Swift to the neighbouring thore betook his way :
Safe in the shelter of the gloomy shade,
And by strong ties of pious duty fway'd,
The fearless youth the watery strand survey’d.
'Twas now the thickest darkness of the night,
And waining Phoebe lent a feeble light;
Yet foon the glimmering goddess plainly fhew'd
The paler corfe, amidst the dusky flood.
The plunging Roman flies to its relief,
And with ftrong arms infolds the floating chief.
Long ftrove his labour with the tumbling main,
And dragg'd the sacred burden on with pain.
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