Battle of Pharsalia. a. U. C. 706

NOw Pompey to rude clamour forc'd to yield, Draws forth his legions in Pharsalia's field. The impatient youth deride his cold delays, While he condemns the ardour he obeys; Tir'd of their taunts, and less convinc'd, than stung By buzzing wits, and keener Tally's tongue. The vulgar, too, in many a factious band, Approving, censuring, and confounding stand; Folly and fear distract the ignoble crowd, Like cymbals ever, hollow, light, and loud; Like cymbals too, rais'd by the master's hand, And dumb or sounding but by his command. Woe to the chief, whose fluctuating mind Veers, like the vane, with every whistling wind; For he who each new counsellor will hear, Must oft the latest to the best prefer. His battle's strength his cavalry he deem'd; Numerous and proud, invincible they seem'd: Elate already with success, they feel Sol's orient lustre dazzling from their steel; Trim glittering bands, who in their splendour see Not valiant deeds alone, but victory. Alas! before those sunbeams gild the west, Devouring vultures on their limbs shall feast; And pride be taught, that, to secure success, Vain shew gains little, and presumption less. Sagacious Caesar views his lines of horse, And posts against them a reserve of force. Fortune confers what long he sought in vain, To try the combat in the open plain; Nor can their numbers, twice his own, control The glowing presage of his dauntless soul. Domitius leads his centre to the fight, The left Antonius, and himself the right, To Pompey full oppos'd. Ere they advance, He bids his hardy veterans push the lance Strait at the faces of the gaudy host, Who more their beauty than their prowess boast. Since the firm earth's foundations, ne'er was fought A combat, with such mighty import fraught: How poor must towns and provinces appear, The common objects of men's hope or fear, When, with comparing view, is scan'd the extent Of all depending on this huge event? The mistress of mankind, high-seated Rome, From this great day expects her final doom; To see her rights, her liberty, her all, Confirm'd for ever, or for ever fall. And next, the matchless agents fill our eyes, The world's best leaders, and the world the prize. Onward they rush; but, ere the battle bleeds, A pause, a dreadful interval, succeeds; Then, like dark clouds swell'd from the surly north, And big with storms, their gather'd rage bursts forth. Black, ebon black, the hour to Pompey's fame, His cohorts routed, and disgrac'd his name; That star, long labouring to meridian height, Shoots down at once to never-ending night: All the bright threads by fortune's fingers spun, The toil of years, unravell'd, backward run. The fire-scath'd oak, with votive garlands crown'd, Thus mourns its honours withering on the ground: Alone, expos'd it stands, its trunk stript bare, The herd pass by, and find no shelter there; Trembling, the way-worn pilgrim speeds his pace, Nor dares abide near the devoted place. Life's varying seasons by degrees decay, But Pompey's summer closes with a day. Where are the crouds that hail'd his noon-tide blaze? The senate's homage, and the people's praise? Attendant kings that grac'd his glittering train? Where all the oblig'd, the obsequious, and the vain? Far, far aloof, they fly; as birds disperse When raging storms their dusky columns pierce. Adversity, thy bitter blasts declare What slaves to chance instable mortals are. Ask for great Pompey now; lo, in his tent, With visage wan, his robe of battle rent; Where his sad eye Emathia's valley views, His scatter'd legions fly, the foe pursues; Ev'n in his camp he sees the hostile spear, And Caesar's conquering name appals his ear. The sumptuous banquet in his tents display'd, The goblets crown'd, the purple carpets laid; The heat excluded by the shadowing tree, And in a field the city's luxury; By their fallacious pomp too plain express, How vainly pride anticipates success; Too plainly prove, to double every curse, Minds unprepar'd for fortune's sad reverse. Unthought-of ill assails with twofold weight, And finds no guard against the storms of fate. With grief and shame his quiv'ring cheeks are flush'd, And every function of his soul lies crush'd; Courage at first forsakes his humbled breast, Then hope, the bosom's latest, lingering guest. In sable sorrow's comfortless array, Through Tempé's shades he takes his lonely way; Pondering the uncertain base of mortal pride, While winding Peneus murmurs by his side: There, in the mazes of the silent grove, His streaming eyes upbraid inconstant Jove; Then, parch'd with thirst, along the river's brink He stoops, cold comfort from the wave to drink. Dismay'd he stops, or panting looks behind, And hears the imagin'd foe in every wind. All ills his rage had on the vanquish'd shed, Pale fear inflicts on his own forfeit head; Himself the mournful pageant of the war, And Caesar high in his triumphal car. Like a poor bark, her sails and rudder lost, In vain he hopes some hospitable coast; For chance, not choice, must now the vessel steer, While rocks all round, and faithless shelves are near. Where can he turn? What port will now receive The dangerous freight, a vanquish'd fugitive? To Lesbos, where his soul's best treasure bides, His course, at length, the harrass'd warrior guides. As sometimes, though black clouds obscure the day. The labouring sun emits a transient ray; So, in his breast, one gleam of joy revives, Reflecting, that his dear Cornelia lives: Though interest's servile train forsake his side, Receding with his fortune's ebbing tide, No chance or change her constant faith can move, And woe's best balm is soft connubial love; That cordial drop, which in life's chalice quaff'd, Pervades and sweetens all the bitter draught. But in what Lethe can he fancy steep? On what kind down will restless memory sleep? When her too faithful, busy pencil draws What now, alas! he is, and what he was. O, how unprescient of this dire disgrace, Was the gay tumult of their last embrace! When weaving garlands for her lord's return, Smiling she talk'd of ruin'd Caesar's urn; Nor in the proud delusion could foresee, That hope is scarce the shade of certainty. Laurels and myrtles deck the conqueror now, While the sad cypress fades on Pompey's brow. O vain-disposing man! a scornful Jove Sits mocking thy presumption, from above; Views the fond structures of the exulting mind, Then puffs the empty bubbles to the wind; Till sage experience owns this truth at last, That nought on earth is certain but the past. Long doubtful to what region he might trust, And many bad. declin'd, he chose the worst. Vile strumpet, Fortune! who would trust thy smile? Thy blandishments allure, but to beguile. The master late of all Rome's naval pride, Whose brazen prows oppress'd the foaming tide, All but his wife and faithful freedman lost, With one poor bark now seeks the Egyptian coast. Not Egypt's shore the vanquish'd chief could save: He sought a refuge, and he found a grave. Fated to fall, the soft Etesian gale To false Canopus wafts his luckless sail. Dull as the banks where Lethe's poppies sleep, Where torpid weeds their slimy chambers keep, Lies the flat shore. No choral nautick sound, To charm the heaving anchor from the ground; No shepherd's pipe, nor feather'd songsters, there, Pierce the thick ether, and revive the air; But o'er rank swamps on tainted vapours borne, The buzzing insect winds his peevish horn. Along the wharf, with languid loit'ring pace, Strolls an enervate, worthless, sun-bak'd race; To virtue's livelier emanations dead, And sodden as the soil on which they tread: No balmy gales, or varying clouds they know, But brazen skies above, and burning sands below. Yet, what the withering vault of heaven denies, Redundant Nile from his moist lap supplies; Sweeping thro' seven broad mouths the flood comes down, His secret source oft sought, and long unknown: Ammon's great son the spring in vain explor'd, In vain Cambyses, and the Memphian lord; Yet one brave Briton's happier toil has won What baffled Eastern kings, and Ammon's son. Unlike all deluges his tide he leads; Plenty, not ruin, the o'erflow succeeds; As a kind monarch who his subjects loves, Not wasting, but enriching, where he moves. O'er the drench'd soil his wat'ry pinions spread, He broods abundance, then forsakes his bed. This wonder ancient ages saw or heard, Profoundly reason'd, and profoundly err'd. But most the wise in Nature's laws admire His punctual times to visit and retire: High swells the surge when sultry Syrius burns, And Libra poises o'er his shrinking urns. Here the swarth husbandman's promiscuous grain Is sown on lazy mud, and reap'd again; And while no toil the willing harvest needs, Unearn'd he sees it rise, and thankless feeds; Sol's glowing beams mature the bursting ear, And toads and asps 'midst waving corn appear. The land's fertility with plagues is curs'd; But of all plagues, her treacherous sons the worst. One sullen skiff alone is seen to attend; They beckon to the hero to descend. With sighs suppress'd, and sad presaging heart Cornelia sees the slender pomp depart. High on the lonely deck the matron stands, Eyes the small boat, and lifts to heaven her hands; Then deeper darkness seem'd to obsure the pole, Nor distant thunder, muttering ceas'd to roll. Scarce did his foot the treacherous margin find, When stabb'd, he falls, by ruffians' swords behind; Yet mindful ever of a hero's pride, Great to the last, without a groan he died. Cornelia's piercing shrieks distract the air, While life prolong'd but lengthens her despair; With all her sails outspread, and every oar, The hurrying vessel flies the hated shore.— Proud of their shame, th' inglorious court they seek, And bear his head fresh sever'd from the neck: Athwart a bench the body rudely thrown, That head august was hackled through the bone; While, base Septimius, vile Egyptians see, Hang o'er the tedious bungling butchery. O sad reverse of false-deluding chance! O mournful lesson for man's arrogance! A little earth, scrap'd by his freedman's nails, Preserves the sacred trunk from tainting gales; One oozy plank, dragg'd from the stagnant Nile, Is all the honours of his funeral pile. You humbly born! consign'd to fates obscure, And kindly destin'd to be safe and poor, Survey the headless ruin as it lies, And for your fortune thank th' indulgent skies.