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the soldiers by them, is perhaps the most poetical part of this whole work. At Leptis he leaves Cato, and returns to Cæsar, whom he brings into Egypt; after having thewn him the ruins of Troy, and from thence taken an occasion to speak well of poetry in general, and himself in particular. Cæsar, upon his arrival on the coast of Ægypt, is met by an ambassador from Ptolemy with Pompey's head. He receives the present (according to Lucan), with a feigned abhorrence, and concludes the book with tears, and a seeming grief for the misfortune of so great a inan.

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the banks of Nile,
Nor longer, by the earthy parts restrain'd,
Amidit its wretched reliques was detain'd;
But, active and impatient of delay,

5 Shot from the mouldering heap, and upwards urgʻd its

way. Far in those azure regions of the air Which border on the rolling starry sphere, Beyond our orb, and nearer to that height, Where Cynthia drives around her silver light; Their happy. seats the demi-gods poffefs, Refin'd by virtue, and prepar'd for bliss ; Of life unblam'd, a pure and pious race, Worthy that lower heaven and stars to grace, Divine, and equal to the glorious place. There Pompey's soul, adorn d with heavenly light, 16 Soon fone among the relt, and as the rest was bright. New to the blest abode, with wonder fillid, The stars and moving planets he beheld;

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Then looking down on the sun's feeble ray,
Survey'd our dulky, faint, imperfect day,
And under what a cloud of night we lay.
But when he saw, how on the shore forlorn
His headless trunk was cast for public scorn;
When he beheld, how envious fortune, still,
Took pains to use a senseless carcafe ill,
He smil'd at the vain malice of his foe,
And pity'd impotent mankind below,
Then lightly palling o'er Emathia's plain,
His flying navy scatter'd on the inain,

30
And cruel Cæsar's tents; he fix'd at last
His residence in Brutus' sacred breast:
There brooding o’er his country's wrongs he fate,
The state's avenger, and the tyrant's fate;
There mournful Rome mighi ftill her Pompey find, 35
There, and in Cato's free unconquer'd inind.

He, while in deep fuspense the world yet lay, Anxious and doubtful whom it should obey, Hatred avow'd to Pompey's self did bear, Though his companion in the common war.

40 Though, by the senate's just command, they stood Engag'd together for the public good; But dread Pharfalia did all doubts decide, And firmly fix'd him to the vanquish'd lide. His helpless country, like an orphan left,

45 Friendless and poor, of all support bereft, He took and cherish'd with a father's care, He comforted, he bad her not to fear ; And taught her feeble hands once more the trade

of war.

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Nor lust of empire did his courage fway,
Nor hate, nor proud repugnance to obey :
Rassions and private interest he forgot ;

Not for himielf, but liberty he fought.
: Straight to Corcyra's port his way he bent,
The swift advancing victor to prevent;

:55 Who, marching sudden on to new fuccess, The scatter'd legions might with ease oppress, There, with the ruins of Æmathia's field, The flying hoft, a thousand ships he fill’d. Who that from land, with wonder, had descry'd :60 The passing fleet, in all its naval pride, Stretch'd wide, and o'er the distant ocean spread, Could have believ'd those mighty numbers fled ? Malea o'erpast, and the. Tænarian fore, With swelling fails he. for Cythera bore :

65 Then Crete he faw, and with a northern wind : Soon left the fam'd Dictzan isle behind.

Urg'd by the bold Phycuntine's churlifh pride,
(Their shores, their haven, to his fleet denyd)
The chief reveng’d the wrong, and as he pass’d, 70
Laid their unhospitable city waste.
'Thence wafted forward, to the coast he came
Which took of old from Palinure its name.
(Nor Italy this monument alone
Can boast, since Libya?s Palinure has shown
Her peaceful shores were to the Trojan known.)
From hence they foon descry with doubtful pain,
Another navy on the distant main.
Anxious they stand, and now expect the foe,
Now their companions in the public woe :

80 The

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The victor's haste inclines them most to fear;.
Each vessel seems a hostile face to wear,
And every fail they spy, they fancy Cæfar there,
But oh those ships a different burden bore,
A mournful freight they wafted to the shore : 85
Sorrows that might tears, ev’n from Cato, gain,
And teach the rigid Stoic to complain.

When long the sad Cornelia's prayers, in vain,
Had try'd the flying navy to detain,
With Sextus long had ftrove, and long implor'd, 90;
To wait the relicks of her murder'd lord;
The waves, perchance, might the dear pledge restore,
And waft him bleeding from the faithless Thore: .
Still grief and love their various hopes inspire,
Till she beholds her Pompey's funeral fire, 95.,
Till on the land she fees th' ignoble flame
Ascend, unequal to the hero's name;
Then into just complaints at length she broke,
And thus with pious indignation (poke :

Oh fortune!' dost thou then disdain t'afford,
My love's last office to my deareft lord ?
Am I one chaste, one last embrace deny'd?
Shall I not lay me by his clay-cold fide,
Nor tears to bathe his gaping wounds provide ?
Am I unworthy the sad torch to bear,

105
To light the flame, and burn my flowing hair ?
To gather from the shore the noble spoil,
And place it decent on the fatal pile?
Shall not his bones and sacred dust be borne,
In this sad bofom, to their peaceful urn ?
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Whate'er the last consuming flame fhall leave,
Shall not this widow'd hand by right receive,
And to the gods the precious relicks give ?
Perhaps, this last respect, which I should show,
Some vile Ægyptian hand does now bestow,
Injurious to the Roman shade below.
Happy, my Crassus, were thy bones, which lay
Expos’d to Parthian birds and beasts of prey !
Here the last rites the cruel gods allow,
And for a curse my Pompey's pile bestow.
For ever will the samne sad fate return ?
Still an unburied husband must I mourn,
And weep my sorrows o'er an empty urn ?
But why should tombs be built, or urns be made ?
Does grief like mine require their feeble aid ? 125
Is he not lodg'd, thou wreich! within thy heart,
And fix'd in

every

dearest vital part?
O'er monuments surviving wives may grieve,
She ne'er will need them, who disdains to live.
But oh ! 'behold where yon malignant flames

130 Cast feebly forth their mean inglorious beams : From

my lov'd lord, his dear remains, they rise,
And bring my Pompey to my weeping eyes ;
And now they fink, the languid lights decay,
The cloudy smoke all eastward rolls away
And wafts my hero to the rising day.
Me too the winds demand, with freshening gales ;
Envious they call, and stretch the swelling fails.
No land on earth seems dear as Ægypt now,
No land that crowns and triumphs did bestow,
And with new laurels bound my Pompey's brow.

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