Julius Caesar. a. U. C. 706

The lambent flame of Caesar's fire-touch'd soul No fears could damp, nor principle control. At manhood's dawning of his sire bereft, To form his mind was to Aurelia left; And nature's lavish gifts, that mother's love With care unceasing fail'd not to improve. All that wise schools, or wiser seers could teach, What study could acquire, or talents reach, His youth attain'd; nor could instruction give More than his rare endowments could receive. Round the sharp goal to whirl the rapid car, To launce the javelin whistling through the air, To give new spirit to the bounding horse, And stem the headlong torrent in its course, None knew like him: thus manly toil supply'd What daintier nature to his frame deny'd. While yet a youth, his dauntless brow alone With equal menace met proud Sylla's frown; Till with prophetick voice the tyrant cry'd, He many Marii in that boy espy'd. Graceful his mien, with eloquence to charm, In peace prevailing, as in fight his arm; Nor Tully only would have rul'd the bar, Had not ambition fir'd his soul for war. When his bright orb ascends th' Hesperian sky, Rome's lesser stars fade from the galaxy; The splendour of their former rays is gone, Or all concenter'd shine in him alone. Whatever age had seen great Julius rise, Where'er his birth beneath th' extended skies, So vast, so various were his powers of mind, He must have been supreme, and rul'd mankind. No serpent, under Africk's solstice bred, Rolling o'er firy sands, by sunbeams fed, With fiercer thirst e'er sought the quenching stream, Than his hot bosom burn'd to rule supreme. As down the o'er-seeth'd cauldron's brazen sides At length the wat'ry distillation glides, So, while the tale of Ammon's son he read, To envy's flame, see copious tears succeed. "Thou, happy Greek, (he cry'd) the world had'st won, "In earlier youth than Caesar's name was known." O godlike envy, yet o dire presage Of woes too sure from his maturer age! On sovereign domination long intent, To gods and kings he trac'd his high descent; And in the forum, from his list'ning slaves, By the proud vaunt, their future homage craves. For this, the factious populace he rous'd, The cause of Marius he for this espous'd; Boldly for this, he bade the people see His statues deck'd with wreaths of victory; Assur'd, that when the seeds of strife were sown, The future harvest must be all his own. Against the senate still his force he bent, Scorning their babbling gownish government. To letters, talents, every muse a friend; Liberal to all; yet could he condescend, When factions, like wild tempests, shook the realm, (In hopes the boldest hand might seize the helm,) 'Gainst Tully and good Cato to combine, With desperate Clodius, and fell Catiline. Beyond the Alps he ran his bold career; Rome was for him too small a theatre: Satiate of her inglorious brawls, he hies To distant scenes of hardy enterprize. But first, by bribes, by all that art could move, He reign'd unrivall'd in the people's love. Low at the bottom of the peaceful deep, In silent caves the seaborn monsters sleep; But when fierce winds vex'd Ocean's bosom tear, To day's broad eye their horrid forms appear: So, in the depths of his capacious breast Ambition's brood in grim repose could rest, The destin'd hour of tumult but to wait,— Then rise reveal'd, and awe the prostrate state. Gauls, Germans, Britain, by his arms o'ercome, Confirm'd his sway, and fix'd his chains on Rome. In dalliance once by Cleopatra held, Awhile he left the labours of the field; She tried her varying poignancy of charms, To fold him long in her voluptuous arms; From balmy lips breath'd forth the endearing vow, And smooth'd the furrows on his care-worn brow: But when the trumpet's notes his trance molest, He pluck'd the sting of pleasure from his breast; Refulgent beam'd again in glittering arms, To shake the coward land with war's alarms; Then Ptolemy he tumbled from his throne, And bade the Royal Harlot rule alone. Yet skill consummate in the soldier's art Had form'd no callous crusting round his heart; Though from ambition oft he stretch'd the sword, Unnecessary blood his soul abhor'd. No brooding hate his fearless bosom kept; Soon as the steel was sheath'd, his vengeance slept. For two great ends alone he seem'd to live, To conquer all mankind, and to forgive. E'en for a foe his kindly tears were shed; He wept at sight of Pompey's sever'd head, Forgot the rival's hate, and mourn'd the hero dead. Not youthful Ammon's envied, early wreath, Not the black tides of fell proscriptive death, Tides, that had wash'd from many a social mind All the sweet charities of good and kind, In Caesar's feeling breast could quite destroy Pity's mild springs, and friendship's generous joy. His tongue, for ever ready to defend, His hand, the willing bounty to extend, No wonder, spite of wild ambition's pride, He liv'd endearing, and lamented died. A soul so soft in every social part, The unwilling tongue calls tyrant, not the heart. For these celestial qualities, when time With dust shall mould my perish'd form and rhyme, His murder told, the sympathetick tear He knew to shed, shall grace his funeral bier; Nor, liberty, thy loudest shouts prevail, To drown soft sorrow at the mournful tale. O, were the devastation of mankind The noblest triumph for a hero's mind; Or had his milder genius been employ'd To save but half the wasteful sword destroy'd; No rival on the guiltless rolls of fame Had vied with all-accomplish'd Caesar's name. While projects boundless in his bosom roll'd, Scarce by the distant poles of heaven controll'd, At home, devoted to an earlier fate, Unconscious in the shade of death he sat; Victim to liberty decreed to fall, Streaming with blood, at Pompey's pedestal. The stoick Brutus led the daring deed; By him he lov'd was Caesar doom'd to bleed. If this one action stain not Brutus' fame, Rome's annals boast not any purer name; For still men doubt, in this impartial time, To admire the virtue, or abhor the crime. A thousand tender thoughts restrain'd his arm, A thousand nobler thoughts his bosom warm; Impell'd, repell'd, and in the conflict tost, More than the deed, the struggle was his boast. He sought no more from slaughter'd Caesar's grave, Than nature, justice, and his country gave; Revenge or jealousy inflam'd the rest, To aim their daggers at the conqueror's breast; By principle alone was Brutus mov'd,— He slew the tyrant, but the man he lov'd.