The Syrts and Libyan sands beneath me lie,
Thither Emathia's scatter'd relics fly.
Now o'er the cloudy Alps I stretch my flight,
And soar above Pyrene's airy height:
To Rome, my native Rome, I turn again,
And see the senate reeking with the slain.
Again the moving chiefs their arms prepare;
Again I follow through the world the war.
Oh, give me, Phoebus! give me to explore,
Some region new, some undiscover'd shore;
I saw Philippi's fatal fields before."

She said: the weary rage began to cease,
And left the fainting prophetess in peace.

BOOK II.

THE ARGUMENT.

Amidst the general consternation that foreran the civil war, the poet introduces an old man giving

an account of the miseries that attended on

that of Marius and Sylla; and comparing their present circumstances to those in which the

commonwealth was when that former war broke

out.

Brutus consults with Cato, whether it were the duty of a private man to concern himself in the public troubles; to which Cato replies in the affirmative: then follows his receiving Marcia again from the tomb of Hortensius. While l'ompey goes to Capua, Cæsar makes himself master of the greatest part of Italy, and among the rest of Corfinium, where Domitius, the governor for Pompey, is seized by his garrison, and delivered to Cæsar, who pardons and dismisses him.

Pompey, in an oration to his army, makes a trial of their disposition to a general battle; but not finding it to answer his expectation, he sends his son to solicit the assistance of his friends and allies; then marches himself to Brundusium, where he is like to be shut up by Cæsar, and escapes at length with much difficulty.

Now manifest the wrath divine appear'd,
And Nature thro' the world the war declar'd;
Teeming with monsters, sacred law she broke,
And dire events in all her works bespoke.
Thou Jove, who dost in Heaven supremely reign,
Why does thy providence these signs ordain,
And give us prescience to increase our pain?
Doubly we bear thy dread-inflicting doom,
And feel our miseries before they come.
Whether the great creating parent Soul,
When first from chaos rude he form'd the whole,
Dispos'd futurity with certain hand,
And bade the necessary causes stand;
Made one decree for ever to remain,
And bound himself in Fate's eternal chain;
Or whether fickle Fortune leads the dance,
Nothing is fix'd, but all things come by chance;
Whate'er thou shalt ordain, thou ruling power,
Unknown and sudden be the dreadful hour:
Let mortals to their future fate be blind,
And hope relieve the miserable mind.

While thus the wretched citizens behold
What certain ills the faithful gods foretold;
Justice suspends her course in mournful Rome,
And all the noisy courts at once are dumb;
No honours shine in the distinguish'd weed,
Nor rods the purple magistrate precede:

A dismal silent sorrow spreads around,
No groan is heard, nor one complaining sound.
So when some generous youth resigns his breath,
And parting sinks in the last pangs of death;
With ghastly eyes, and many a lift-up hand,
Around his bed the still attendants stand;
No tongue as yet presumes his fate to tell,
Nor speaks aloud the solemn last farewell;
As yet the mother by her darling lies,
Nor breaks lamenting into frantic cries;
And though he stiffens in her fond embrace,
His eyes are set, and livid pale his face;
Horrour awhile prevents the swelling tear,
Nor is her passion grief, as yet, but fear;
In one fix'd posture motionless she keeps,
And wonders at her woe before she weeps.
The matrons sad, their rich attire lay by,
And to the temples madly crowding fly:
Some on the shrines their gushing sorrows pour,
Some dash their breasts against the marble floor,
Some on the sacred thresholds rend their hair,
And howling seek the gods with horrid prayer.
Nor Jove receiv'd the wailing suppliants all,
In various fanes on various powers they call.
No altar then, no god was left alone,
Unvex'd by some impatient parent's moan.
Of these, one wretch her grief, above the rest,
With visage torn, and mangled arms confest.
"Ye mothers! beat" (she cry'd) "your bosoms now,
Now tear the curling honours from your brow;
The present hour e'en all your tears demands,
While doubtful fortune yet suspended stands.
When our shall conquer, then for joy prepare,
The victor chief, at least, shall end the war."

Thus, from renew'd complaints they seek relief,
And only find fresh causes out for grief.

The men too, as to different camps they go,
Join their sad voices to the public woe;
Impatient to the gods they raise their cry,
And thus expostulate with those on high:

"Oh hapless times! oh that we had been born, When Carthage made our vanquish'd country

mourn!

Well had we then been number'd with the slain
Ou Trebia's banks, or Cannæ's fatal plain.
Nor ask we peace, ye powers, nor soft repose;
Give us new wars, and multitudes of foes;
Let every potent city arm for fight,
And all the neighbour nation's round unite;
From Median Susa let the Parthians come,
And Massagetes beyond their 1ster roam:

Let Elbe and Rhine's unconquer'd springs send
The yellow Suevi from the farthest north: [forth
Let the conspiring world in arms engage,
And save us only from domestic rage.
Here let the hostile Dacian inroads make,
And there his way the Gete invader take.
Let Cæsar in Iberia tame the foe;
Let Pompey break the deadly eastern bow,
And Rome no hand unarm'd for battle know.
But if Hesperia stand condemn'd by fate,
And ruin on our name and nation wait;
Now dart thy thunder, dread Almighty Sire,
Let all thy flaming heavens descend in fire;
On chiefs and parties hurl thy bolts alike, [strike.
And, ere their crimes have made them guilty,
Is it a cause so worthy of our care,

That power may fall to this, or that man's share?
Do we for this the gods and conscience brave,
That one may rule, and make the rest a slave?`

When thus e'en liberty we scarce should buy,
But think a civil war a price too high."
Thus groan they at approaching dire events,
And thus expiring piety laments.
Meanwhile the hoary sire his years deplores,
And age that former miseries restores :
He hates his weary life prolong'd for woe,
Worse days to see, more impious rage to know.
Then fetching old examples from afar,

"T was thus" (he cries) "fate usher'd in the war:
When Cimbrians fierce, and Libya's swarthy lord,
Had falin before triumphant Marius' sword;
Yet to Minturnæ's marsh the victor fled,
And hid in oozy flags his exil'd head.
The faithless soil the hunted chief reliev'd,
And sedgy waters fortune's pledge receiv'd.
Deep in a dungeon plung'd at length he lay,
Where gyves and rankling fetters eat their way,
And noisome vapours on his vitals prey.
Ordain'd at ease to dine in wretched Rome,
He suffer'd then, for wickedness to come.
In vain his foes had arm'd the Cimbrian's hand,
Death will not always wait upon command;
About to strike, the slave with horrour shook,
The useless steel his loosening gripe forsook;
Thick flashing flames a light unusual gave,
And sudden shone around the gloomy cave;
Dreadful the gods of guilt before him stood,
And Marius terrible in future blood;
When thus a voice began: Rash man forbear,
Ser teach that bead which fate resolves to spare;
Thousands are doom'd beneath his arm to bleed,
And countless deaths before his own decreed;
Thy wrath and purpose to destroy is vain:
Would'st thou avenge thee for thy nation slain?
Preserve this man; and in some coming day
The Cimbrian slaughter well he shall repay.'
No pitying god, no power to mortals good,
Could save a salvage wretch who joy'd in blood:
But tate reserv'd him to perform its doom,
And be the minister of wrath to Rome.

By swelling seas too favourably tost,
Safely be reach'd Numidia's hostile coast;

The sliding streets with blood were clotted o'er,
And sacred temples stood in pools of gore.
The ruthless steel, impatient of delay,
Forbad the sire to linger out his day:
It struck the bending father to the earth,
And cropt the wailing infant at his birth.
(Can innocents the rage of parties know,
And they who ne'er offended find a foe?)
Age is no plea, and childhood no defence,
To kill is all the murderer's pretence.
Rage stays not to inquire who ought to die,
Numbers must fall, no matter which, or why;
Each in his hand a grisly visage bears,
And as the trophy of his virtue wears. [streets,
Who wants a prize, straight rushes thro' the
And undistinguish'd mows the first he meets;
The trembling crowd with fear officious strive,
And those who kiss the tyrant's hand survive,
Oh could you fall so low, degenerate race!
And purchase safety at a price so base?
What though the sword was master of your doom,
Though Marius could have given you years to
Can Romans live by infamy so mean? [come.
But soon your changing fortune shifts the scene;
Short is your date; you only live to mourn
Your hopes deceiv'd, and Sylla's swift return.
The vulgar falls, and none laments his fate,
Sorrow has hardly leisure for the great.
What tears could Bæbius' hasty death deplore!
A thousand hands his mangled carcass tore;
His scatter'd entrails round the streets were tost
And in a moment all the man was lost.
Who wept, Antonius' murder to behold,
Whose moving tongue the mischief oft foretold?
Spite of his age and eloquence he bled;
The barbarous soldier snatch'd his hoary head;
Dropping he bore it to his joyful lord,
And while he feasted plac'd it on the board.
The Crassi both by Fimbria's hand were slain,
And bleeding magistrates the pulpit stain.
Then did the doom of that neglecting hand,
Thy fate, O holy Scævola, command;
In vain for succour to the gods he flies,

There, driven from man, to wilds he took his The priest before the vestal altar dies:

way;

And on the earth, where once he conquer'd, lay;
There in the lone unpeopled desert field,
Proud Carthage in her ruins he beheld;
Amidst her ashes pleas'd he sat him down,
And joy'd in the destruction of the town.
The genius of the place, with mutual hate,
Year'd its sad head, and smil'd at Marius' fate;
Each with delight survey'd their fallen foe,
And each forgave the gods that laid the other low.
There with new fury was his soul possest,
And Libyan rage collected in his breast.
Soon as returning fortune own'd his cause,
Trops of revolting bond-men forth he draws;
Cut-throats and slaves resort to his command,
And arms were given to every baser hand,
None worthily the leader's standard bore,
Unstain'd with blood or blackest crimes before:
Villains of fame, to fill his bands, were sought,
And to his camp increase of crimes they brought.
Who can relate the horrours of that day,
When first these walls became the victor's prey!
With what a stride devouring Slaughter past,
And swept promiscuous orders in her haste!
Oer noble and plebeian rang'd the sword;
Nor pity or remorse one pause afford.

A feeble stream pour'd forth the exhausted sire,
And spar'd to quench the everliving tire.
The seventh returning fasces now appear,
And bring stern Marius' latest destin'd year:
Thus the long toils of changing life o'erpast,
Hoary and full of days he breath'd his last.
While Fortune frown'd, her fiercest wrath he bore,
And while she smil'd enjoy'd her amplest power:
All various turns of good and bad he knew,
And prov'd the most that chance or fate could do.
"What heaps of slain the Colline gate did yield!
What bodies strew'd the Sacriportan field,
When empire was ordain'd to change her seat,
To leave her Rome, and make Præneste great!
When the proud Samnites' troops the state defy'd,
In terms beyond their Caudine treaty's pride.
Nor Sylla with less cruelty returns,
With equal rage the fierce avenger burns:
What blood the feeble city yet retain'd,
With too severe a healing hand he drain'd:
Too deeply was the searching steel employ'd,
What maladies had hurt, the leach destroy'd
The guilty only were of life bereft :
Alas! the guilty only then were left.
Dissembledhate and rancour rang'd at will
All as they pleas'd took liberty to kill;

And while revenge no longer fear'd the laws,
Each private murder was the public cause.
The leader bade destroy: and at the word,
The master fell beneath the servant's sword.
Brothers on brothers were for gifts bestow'd,
And sons contended for their father's blood.
Nor refuge some to caves and forests fled;
Some to the lonely mansions of the dead;
Some, to prevent the cruel victor, die;
These strangled hang from fatal beams on high;
While those, from tops of lofty turrets thrown,
Came headlong on the dashing pavement down.
Some for their funerals the wood prepare,
And build the sacred pile with hasty care:
Then bleeding to the kindling flames they press,
And Roman rites, while yet they may, possess.
Pale heads of Marian chiefs are borne on high,
And heap'd together in the Forum lie;
There join the meeting slaughters of the town,
There each performing villain's deeds are known.
No sight like this the Thracian stables knew,
Antans' Libyan spoils to these were few:
Nor Greece beheld so many suitors fall,
To grace the Pisan tyrant's horrid hall.

At length, when putrid gore, with foul disgrace,
Hid the distinguish'd features of the face,
By night the miserable parents came,
And bore their sons to some forbidden flame.
Well I remember, in that woeful reign,
How I my brother sought amongst the slain;
Hopeful by stealth his poor remains to burn,
And close his ashes in a peaceful urn;
His visage in my trembling hand I bore,
And turn'd pacific Sylla's trophies o'er;
Full many a mangled trunk 1 try'd, to see
Which carcass with the head would best agree.
Why should my grief to Catullus return,
And tell the victim offer'd at his urn;
When, struck with horrour, the relenting shade
Beheld his wrongs too cruelly repay'd?
I saw where Marius' hapless brother stood,
With limbs all torn, and cover'd o'er with blood;
A thousand gaping wounds increas'd his pain,
While weary life a passage sought in vain;
That mercy still his ruthless foes deny,
And, whom they mean to kill, forbid to die.
This from the wrist the suppliant hands divides,
That hews his arms from off his naked sides;
One crops his breathing nostrils, one his ears,
While from the roots his tongue another tears;
Panting awhile upon the earth it lies,

And with mute motion trembles ere it dies:
Last, from the sacred caverns where they lay,
The bleeding orbs of sight are rent away.
Can late posterity believe, whene'er
This tale of Marius and his foes they hear,
They could inflict so much, or he could bear?
Such is the broken carcass seen to lie,
Crush'd by some tumbling turret from on high;
Such to the shore the shipwreck'd corse is borne,
By rending rocks and greedy monsters torn.
Mistaken rage! thus mangling to disgrace,
And blot the lines of Marius' hated face!
What joy can Sylla take, unless he know
And mark the features of his dying foe?
Fortune beheld, from her Prænestine fane,
Her helpless worshippers around her slain;
One hour of fate was common to them all,
And like one man she saw a people fall.

Then dy'd the lusty youth in manly bloom,
Hesperia's flower, and hope for times to come;
Their blood, Rome's only strength, distains the
Ordain'd th' assembling centuries to hold. [fold
Numbers have oft been known, on sea and land,
To sink of old by death's destructive hand;
Battles with multitudes have strown the plain,
And many perish on the stormy main:
Earthquakes destroy, malignant vapours blast,
And plagues and famines lay whole nations waste:
But justice, sure, was never seen, till now,
To massacre her thousands at a blow.
Satiety of death the victors prove,

And slowly through th' encumbering ruin moves
So many fall, there scarce is room for more,
The dying nod on those who fell before;
Crowding in heaps their murderers they aid,
And, by the dead, the living are o'erlaid.
Meanwhile the stern dictator, from on high,
Beholds the slaughter with a fearless eye;
Nor sighs, to think his dread commands ordain
So many thousand wretches to be slain.
Amidst the Tiber's waves the load is thrown,
The torrent rolls the guilty burthen down;
Till rising mounds obstruct his watery way,
And carcasses the gliding vessels stay.
But soon another stream to aid him rose,
Swift o'er the fields a crimson deluge flows:
The Tuscan river swells above his shores,
And floating bodies to the land restores:
Struggling at length he drives his rushing flood,
And dyes the Tyrrhene ocean round with blood.
Could deeds like these the glorious style demand
Of prosperous, and saviour of the land?
Could this renown, could these achievements build
A tomb for Sylla in the Martian field?
Again, behold the circling woes return,
Again the curse of civil wars we mourn;
Battles and blood, and vengeance, shall succeed,
And Rome once more by Roman hands shall bleed.
Or if, for hourly thus our fears presage, [rage,
With wrath more fierce the present chiefs shall
Mankind shall some unheard-of plagues deplore,
And groan for miserics unknown before.
Marius an end of exile only sought;
Sylla to crush a hated faction fought;
A larger recompense these leaders claim,
And higher is their vast ambition's aim:
Could these be satisfy'd with Sylla's power;
Nor, all he had possessing, ask for more;
Neither had force and impious arms employ'd,
Or fought for that which guiltless each enjoy'd."
Thus wept lamenting age o'er hapless Rome,
Remembering evils past, and dreading those to

come.

But Brutus' temper fail'd not with the rest,
Nor with the common weakness was opprest;
Safe and in peace he kept his manly breast.
'T was when the solemn dead of night came on,
When bright Calisto with her shining son
Now half their circle round the pole had run;
When Brutus, on the busy times intent,
To virtuous Cato's humble dwelling went:
Waking he found him, careful for the state,
Grieving and fearing for his country's fate;
For Rome, and wretched Rome, alone he fear'd;
Secure within himself, and for the worst prepar'd
To him thus Brutus spoke: "O thou, to whom
Forsaken virtue flies, as to her home,

Toss'd by the winds, and scatter'd round the sky;
While the more solid parts the force resist,
And fix'd and stable on the centre rest.
Casar shall hear with joy, that thou art join'd
With fighting factions, to disturb mankind:
Though sworn his foe, he shall applaud thy choice,
And think his wicked war approv'd by Cato's

See! how to swell their mighty leader's state
The consuls and the servile senate wait:
Een Cato's self to Pompey's yoke must bow,
And all mankind are slaves but Cæsar now.
li war, however, be at last our doom,
If we must arm for liberty and Rome:
While undecided yet their fate depends,
Cæsar and Pompey are alike my friends;
Which party I shall choose, is yet to know,
That let the war decide; who conquers is my foe."
Thus spoke the youth. When Cato thus exprest
The sacred counsels of his inmost breast:
"Brutas! with thee, I own the crime is great;
With thee, this impious civil war I hate;
But virtue blindly follows, led by fate.
Answer yourselves, ye gods, and set me free;
I am guilty, 't is by your decree.