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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 fovereign 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 faid; the mournful brother thus reply'd ;
happy thou! whom lands and feas divide
From woes, which did to these fad eyes betide:
These eyes! which of their horror still complain,
Since they beheld our godlike father flain.
Nor did his fate an equal death afford,
Nor fuffer'd him to fall by Cæfar's fword.
Trusting in vain to hospitable gods,
He dy'd, opprefs'd by vile Ægyptian odds :
By the curs'd monarch of Nile's flimy wave
He fell, a victim to the crown he gave.
Yes, I beheld the dire, the bloody deed;
Thefe 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 fo much did move,
Pierc'd my sad soul, and struck my filial love,
As that his venerable head they bear,

Their wanton trophy, fix'd upon a spear;

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Through every town 'tis fhown, the vulgar's fport, 230 And the lewd laughter of the tyrant's court.

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'Tis faid, that Ptolemy preferves 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:
Whether within their greedy maws entomb`d,
Or by thofe wretched flames, we faw, confum'd;
Its fate as yet we know not, but forgive:
That crime unpunifh'd, to the gods we leave,
'Tis for the part preferv'd alone we grieve.
Scarce had he ended thus, when Pompey, warm
With noble fury, calls aloud to arm;
Nor feeks in fighs and helpless tears relief,
But thus in pious rage exprefs'd his grief:

Hence all aboard, and hafte to put to fea,
Urge on against the winds our adverse way;
With me let every Roman leader go,
Since Civil Wars were ne'er fo just as now.
Pompey's unbury'd relicks ask your aid,

Call for due rites and honours to be paid.
Let Ægypt's tyrant pour a purple flood,
And footh the ghoft with his inglorious blood.
Not Alexander fhall his priests defend,
Forc'd from his golden fhrine he fhall defcend:
In Marcotis deep I 'll plunge him down,

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Deep in the fluggish waves the royal carcafe drown.

From his proud pyramid Amafis torn,
With his long dynailies my rage shall mourn,

And floating down their muddy Nile be borne.
Each stately tomb and monumental ftone,
For thee, unburièd Pompey, fhall atone.

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Ifis no more fhall draw the cheated crowd,
Nor God Ofiris in his linen fhrowd;

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Stript of their fhrines, with scorn they shall be caft,
To be by ignominious hands defac’d;
Their holy Apis, of diviner breed,
To Pompey's duft a facrifice fhall 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 fhall be left for whom the Nile may flow:
Till, the gods banish'd, and the people gone,
Ægypt to Pompey flrall be left alone.

He faid; then hafty to revenge he flew,
And feaward out the ready navy drew ;
But cooler Cato did the youth affwage,
And praifing much, compreft his filial rage.
Meantime the fhores, the feas, and fkies around,
With mournful cries for Pompey's death refound.
A rare example have their forrows shown,
Yet in no age befide, nor people known,
How falling power did with compaflion meet,
And erouds deplor'd the ruins of the great.
But when the fad Cornelia first appear'd,

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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,
And heaven and earth ring with their cries again.

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Soon

Soon as the landed on the friendly ftrand,
Her lord's laft rites employ her pious hand;
To his dear fhade fhe builds a funeral pile,
And decks it proud with many a noble spoil.
There fhone his arms with antic gold inlaid,
There the rich robes which the herself had made,
Robes to imperial Jove in triumph erst display'd:
The relicks of his past victorious days,
Now this his latest trophy serve to raise,
And in one common flame together blaze,
Such was the weeping matron's pious care:
The foldiers, taught by her, their fires prepare;
To every valiant friend a pile they build,
That fell for Rome in curs'd Pharfalia's field:
Stretch'd wide along the fhores, the flames extend,
And, grateful to the wandering fhades, afcend.
So when Apulian hinds, with art, renew
The wintery pastures to their verdant hue,

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That flowers may rife, and springing grafs return, 310
With spreading flames the wither'd fields they burn,
Garganus then and lofty Vultur blaze,

And draw the distant wandering swains to gaze;
Far are the glittering fires defcry'd by night,
And gild the dusky skies around with light.

But, oh! not all the forrows of the croud
That spoke their free impatient thoughts aloud,
That tax'd the gods, as authors of their woe,
And charg'd them with neglect of things below;
Not all the marks of the wild people's love,
The hero's foul, like Cato's praise, could move;

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Few

Few were his words, but from an honeft heart,
Where faction and where favour had no part,
But truth made up for paffion and for art.

We 've loft a Roman citizen (he faid):
One of the noblest of that name is dead;
Who, though not equal to our fathers found,
Nor by their ftrictest rules of justice bound,
Yet from his faults this benefit we draw,
He, for his country's good, tranfgrefs'd her law,
To keep a bold licentious age in awe.

Rome held her freedom ftill, though he was great;
He sway'd the senate, but they rul'd the state.
When crouds, were willing to have worn his chain,
He chofe his private station to retain,

That all might free, and equal all remain.
War's boundless power he never fought to use,
Nor afk'd, but what the people might refufe:
Much he poffefs'd, and wealthy was his ftore,

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Yet fill he gather'd but to give the more, to poor.}

He drew the fword, but knew its rage to charm,
And lov'd peace beft, when he was forc'd to arm;
Unmov'd with all the glittering pomp of. power,

He took with joy, but laid it down with more : 345
His chafter houshold and his frugal board,
Nor lewdnefs did, nor luxury afford,
Ev n in the higheft fortunes of their lord.
His noble name, his country's honour grown,
Was venerably round the nations known,

And as Rome's faireft light and brightest glory fhone.

When

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