Mithridates. a. U. C. 680

Too oft, 'tis true, the historian's record shows, Fortune with Rome, and justice with her foes; Too oft, alas! the impartial eye must find Conquest with guilt in all her wreaths entwin'd: But cruel Mithridates urg'd his fate, And fell unpitied, though unfortunate. Resolv'd to be destroy'd, or to o'ercome, His hate surpass'd ev'n Hannibal's to Rome. More fierce and not less brave, nor forc'd, like him, To hang for succours on a faction's whim; Like him, to court a senate, far remov'd From dangers they decried, and he had prov'd; A sordid, sanguine, false, inconstant herd, (The soldier's plague,) at once despis'd and fear'd; Cold hearts, and boiling veins, and clamorous tongues, Cause and proclaimers of the people's wrongs; Just perch'd like birds of baleful note on high, To feed and scream, while famish'd veterans die. Not so the Pontus' king; a despot born, He heard of laws, and heard them but to scorn. Fatal alike in all his fierce designs, To subjects, children, wives, and concubines: While in his furious temper love became Pernicious as revenge, or hatred's flame; All in their turn were victims sure to prove, His enmity less dreadful than his love; And his last gift to her who charm'd his soul, The deadly poniard, or envenom'd bowl: Compos'd of contrasts;—though suspicious, bold; Barbarous, though learn'd; and amorous, though old. No friend he trusted, no engagement kept; 'Midst aconite and antidotes he slept; Till on himself his poisons vainly tried, He curs'd the science that was once his pride; And found at length his self-destroying sword The last, best, servant of its desperate lord. Where the vast ridge of Caucasus lies stretch'd, The wild dominions of this monarch reach'd; With savage people fill'd, who own'd his sway, Sequacious still where slaughter led the way: Thence by the sea of Pontus was his reign, His vessels covering all that subject main; Fresh Scythian armies by his gold were gain'd, A race exhaustless, though for ever drain'd. Asia, the eternal seat of war's alarms, Defenceless lay to his invading arms; While his rich cities on the Euxine tide, From thriving commerce stores of wealth supply'd. No hasty, transient war he meant to wage, But felt and breath'd interminable rage: As the chaf'd lion, gall'd by distant wounds, With ire redoubled, on his hunters bounds; So the proud king, defeated, not subdued, Still with new fury his revenge pursued. Lucullus chas'd him first from Asia far, Repuls'd, and seam'd with many a deep-trench'd scar; And Pompey drove the outcast to despair.