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That happy Pompey to my thoughts is loft,
He that is left, lies dead on yonder coast;
He, only he, is all I now demand,
For him I linger near this cursed land :
145 Endear'd by crimes, for horrors lov'd the more, I cannot, will not, leave the Pharian shore. Thon, Sextus, thou shalt prove the chance of war, And through the world thy father's ensigns bear, Then hear his last command, intrusted to my care, “ When e'er my last, my fatal hour shall come, « Arm you, my fons, for liberty and Rome; " While one fall of our free-born race remain, “ Let him prevent the tyrant Cæsar's reign. “ From each free city round, from every land,
155 “ Their warlike aid in Pompey's name demand. “ These are the parties, these the friends he leaves, . “ This legacy your dying father gives. “ If for the fea's wide rule your arms you bear, “ A Pompey ne'er can want a navy there, “ Heirs of my fame, my sons, shall wage my war.
Only be bold, unconquer'd in the fight, 162 " And, like your father, still defend the right. " To Cato, if for liberty he stand, • Submit, and yield you to his ruling hand, “ Brave, juít, and only worthy to command.” At length to thee, my Pompey, I am just, I have surviv’d, and well discharg'd my trust; Through chaos now, and the dark realms below, To follow thee, a willing shade I go :
If longer with a lingering fate I strive,
'Tis but to prove the pain of being alive,
'Tis to be curs'd for daring to survive.
She, who could bear to see thy wounds, and live,
New proofs of love, and fatal grief, shall give. 175
Nor need she fly for succour to the sword,
The steepy precipice, and deadly cord ;
She from herself shall find her own relief,
And scorn to die of any death but grief.
So said the matron; and about her head 180
Her veil fhe draws, her mournful eyes to shade.
Resolv'd to shroud in thickest shades her woe,
She seeks the ship's deep darksome hold below :
There lonely left, at leisure to complain,
She hugs her forrows, and enjoys her pain; 185
Still with fresh tears the living grief would feed,
And fondly loves it, in her husband's stead.
In vain the beating surges rage aloud,
And swelling Eurus grumbles in the shroud ;
Her, nor the waves beneath, nor winds above, 190
Nor all the noisy cries of fear can move;
In sullen peace compos'd for death fhe lies,
And, waiting, longs to hear the tempest rise ;
Then hopes the seamens vows shall all be crost,
Prays for the storm, and wishes to be lost. 195
Soon from the Pharian coast the navy bore, And fought through foamy seas the Cyprian fhore ; Soft eastern gales prevailing thence alone, To Cato's camp and Libya waft them on. With mournful looks from land, (as oft, we know, A iad prophetic spirit waits on woe,)
Pompey his brother and the fleet beheld,
Now near advancing o'er the watery field :
Straight to the beach with headlong hafte he flies :
Where is our father, Sextus, where ? he cries :
Do we yet live? Stands yet the sovereign state ?
Or does the world, with Pompey, yield to fate?
Sink we at length before the conquering foe?
And is the mighty head of Rome laid low?
He said ; the mournful brother thus reply'd ;
happy thou ! whom lands and seas divide From woes, which did to these sad
These eyes ! which of their horror still complain,
Since they beheld our godlike father Nain.
Nor did his fate an equal death afford,
Nor suffer'd him to fall by Cæsar's sword.
Trusting in vain to hospitable gods,
He dy'd, oppress’d by vile Ægyptian odds :
By the curs’d monarch of Nile's slimy wave
He fell, a victim to the crown he gave.
Yes, I beheld the dire, the bloody deed ;
These eyes beheld our valiant father bleed :
Amaz'd I look'd, and scarce believ'd my fear,
Nor thought th' Ægyptian could so greatly dare;
But still I look'd, and fancy'd Cæfar there.
But, oh! not all his wounds so much did move,
Pierc'd my fad soul, and struck my filial love,
As that his venerable head they bear,
Their wanton trophy, fix'd upon a spear ;
Through every town ’tis shown, the vulgar's sport, 230
And the lewd laughter of the tyrant's court.
'Tis said, that Ptolemy preserves this prize,
Proof of the deed, to glut the victor's eyes.
The body, whether rent or borne away,
By foul Ægyptian dogs, and birds of prey : 235
Whether within their greedy maws entomb'd,
Or by those wretched flames, we saw, consum'd;
Its fate as yet we know not, but forgive :
That crime unpunish'd, to the gods we leave,
'Tis for the part preserv'd alone we grieve.
Scarce had he ended thus, when Pompey, warm
With noble fury, calls aloud to arm;
Nor seeks in fighs and helpless tears relief,
But thus in pious rage express’d his grief :
Hence all aboard, and haste to put to sea, 245
Urge on against the winds our adverse way;
With me let every Roman leader go,
Since Civil Wars were ne'er so just as now.
Pompey's unbury'd relicks ask your aid,
Call for due rites and honours to be paid. 250
Let Ægypt's tyrant pour a purple flood,
And sooth the ghost with his inglorious blood.
Not Alexander shall his priests defend,
Forc'd from his golden shrine he shall descend:
In Mareotis deep I 'll plunge him down,
255 Deep in the sluggish waves the royal carcase drown. From his proud pyramid Amasis torn, With his long dynallies my rage shall mourn, And floating down their muddy Nile be borne. Each stately tomb and monumental stone,
260 For thee, unburied Pompey, shall atone.
Ifis no more shall draw the cheated crowd,
Nor God Osiris in his linen Throwd ;
Stript of their shrines, with scorn they shall be cast,
To be by ignominious hands defac’d;
Their holy Apis, of diviner breed,
To Pompey's dust a sacrifice shall bleed,
While burning deities the flame fhall feed.
Waste shall the land be laid, and never know
The tiller's care, not feel the crooked plow :
None shall be left for whom the Nile may flow :
Till, the gods banish'd, and the people gone,
Ægypt to Pompey Irall be left alone.
He said ; then hasty to revenge he few,
And seaward out the ready navy drew;
27'5 But cooler Cato did the youth afswage, And praifing much, comprest his filial rage.
Meantime the mores, the seas, and skies around,
With mournful cries for Pompey's death resound.
A rare example have their sorrows shown,
Yet in no age beside, nor people known,
How falling power did with compassion meet,
And erouds deplor'd the ruins of the great.
But when the fad Cornelia first appear’d;
When on the deck her mournful 'head she rear'd, 285
Her locks hang rudely o'er the matron's face,
With all the pomp of grief's disorder'd grace;
When they beheld her, wasted quite with woe,
And spent with tears that never ceas'd to flow,
Again they feel their lofs, again complain, 29
And heaven and earth ring with their cries again.