P. C. Scipio Africanus. a. U. C. 544

Young Scipio most by grateful Rome was priz'd, By vanquish'd Hannibal immortaliz'd. Her armies by the African o'erthrown, Her means exhausted, and her pride beat down, From woes on woes despondency ensued, His gallant spirit only unsubdued: His ardour breath'd an animating strain, Till up she sprung, and grasp'd her arms again. Of every virtue, every art possess'd, His foes rever'd him, and his country bless'd: An eagle with the mildness of the dove, His valour claim'd esteem, his goodness love; And manly beauty, beaming from his face, To inborn dignity gave outward grace. Nor blaz'd his glory in the field alone, A harder conquest o'er himself he won: In the wild hour of passion's lawless reign, Rejecting joys bought by another's pain, Fond of the fair, in blooming beauty's pride To her true lord he gave the captive bride. If some smooth lawn its verdant mantle spreads, Nigh to where mountains lift their craggy heads, There the pleas'd eye directs its willing ray, Fatigu'd too long by nature's rude display: So his soft manners our regards engage, Midst the stern heroes of that warlike age. Nor think, the Great from their high place descend, Who choose the Muse's favourite for a friend, When mighty Scipio, Rome well pleas'd could see, With Ennius join'd, in kindest amity; Could hear him wish their friendship might survive, When fate's last mandate bade them cease to live; That not ev'n death their union might o'ercome, But blend their ashes in one common tomb. A hundred conquerors the world have torn; Where were two Homers, or two Maros born? Genius is form'd from Nature's choicest clay, While warriors are the ware of every day.