But when the sad Cornelia first appear'd,
When on the deck her mournful head she rear'd,
Her locks hang rudely o'er the matron's face,
With all the pomp of grief's disorder'd grace;
When they beheld her, wasted quite with woe,
And spent with tears that never ceas'd to flow,
Again they feel their loss, again complain,
And Heaven and Earth ring with their cries again.
Soon as she landed on the friendly strand,
Her lord's 'ast rites employ her pious hand;
To his dear shade she builds a funeral pile,
And decks it proud with many a noble spoil.
There shone his arms with antic gold inlaid,
There the rich robes which she herself had made,
Robes to imperial Jove in triumph erst display'd:
The relies of his past victorious days,
Now this his latest trophy serve to raise,
And in one common flame together blaze.
Such was the weeping matron's pious care:
The soldiers, taught by her, their fires prepare:
To every valiant friend a pile they build,
That fell for Rome in curst Pharsalia's field:
Stretch'd wide along the shores, the flames extend,
And, grateful to the wandering shades, ascend.
So when Apulian hinds, with art, renew
The wintery pastures to their verdant hue,
That flowers may rise, and springing grass return,
With spreading flames the wither'd fields they
Garganus then and lofty Vultur blaze, [burn,
And draw the distant wandering swains to gaze;
Far are the glittering fires descry'd by night,
And gild the dusky skies around with light.

But, oh! not all the sorrows of the crowd
That spoke their free impatient thoughts aloud,
That tax'd the gods, as authors of their woe,
And charg'd them with neglect of things below;
Not all the marks of the wild people's love,
The hero's soul, like Cato's praise, could move;
Few were his words, but from an honest heart,
Where faction and where favour had no part,
But truth made up for passion and for art.

"We've lost a Roman citizen," he said:
"One of the noblest of that name is dead;
Who, though not equal to our fathers found,
Nor by their strictest rules of justice bound,
Yet from his faults this benefit we draw,
He, for his country's good, transgress'd her law,
To keep a bold licentious age in awe.
Rome held her freedom still, though he was great;
He sway'd the senate, but they rul'd the state.
When crowds were willing to have worn his chain,
He chose his private station to retain,
That all might free, and equal all remain.
War's boundless power he never sought to use,
Nor ask'd, but what the people might refuse:
Much he possess'd and wealthy was his store,
Yet still he gather'd but to give the more,
And Rome, while he was rich, could ne'er be poor.
He drew the sword, but knew its rage to charm,
And lov'd peace best, when he was forc'd to
arm;

Unmov'd with all the glittering pomp of power,
He took with joy, but laid it down with more:
His chaster houshold and his frugal board,
Nor lewdness did, nor luxury afford,
E'en in the highest fortunes of their lord.

His noble name, his country's honour grown,

Was venerably round the nations known,

When betwixt Marius and fierce Sylla tost,
The commonwealth her ancient freedom lost,
Some shadow yet was left, some show of power;
Now e'en the name with Pompey is no more:
Senate and people all at once are gone,
Nor need the tyrant blush to mount the throne.
Oh, happy Pompey! happy in thy fate,
Happy by falling with the falling state,
Thy death a benefit the gods did grant, [want.
Thou might'st have liv'd those Pharian swords to
Freedom, at least, thou dost by dying gain,
Nor liv'st to see thy Julia's father reign; [slain.
Free death is man's first bliss, the next is to be
Such mercy only I from Juba crave,

(If Fortune should ordain me Juba's slave)
To Cæsar let him slow, but show me dead,
And keep my carcass, so he takes my head.”

He said, and pleas'd the noble shade below,
More than a thousand orators could do;
Though Tully too had lent his charming tongue,
And Rom's full forum with his praise bad rung,
But discord now infects the sullen crowd,
And now they tell their discontents aloud:
When Tarchon first his flying ensigns bore;
Call'd out to march, and hastened to the shore;
Him Cato thus, pursuing as he mov'd,
Sternly bespoke, and justly thus reprov'd:

"Oh, restless author of the roving war,
Dost thou again piratic arms prepare?
Pompey, thy terrour and thy scourge is gone,
And now thou hop'st to rule the seas alone."
He said, and bent his frown upon the rest,
Of whom one bolder thus the chief address'd,
And thus their weariness of war confess'd:

For Pompey's sake, nor thou disdain to hear,
The civil war we wage, these arms we bear;
Him we preferr'd to peace: but, Cato, now,
That cause, that master of our arms lies low.
Let us no more our absent country mourn,
But to our homes and houshold gods return;
To the chaste arms from whose embrace we fled,
And the dear pledges of the nuptial bed.
For oh! what period can the war attend,
Which nor Pharsalia's field nor Pompey's death
can end?

The better times of flying life are past,
Let death come gently on in peace at last.
Let age at length with providential care
The necessary pile and urn prepare,
All rites the cruel civil war denies,
Part ev'n of Pompey yet unbury'd lies.
Though vanquish'd yet by no barbarian hand,
We fear not exile in a foreign land,
Nor are our necks by fortune now bespoke,
To bear the Scythian or Armenian yoke;
The victor still a citizen we own,
And yield obedience to the Roman gown.
While Pompey liv'd, he bore the sovereign sway;
Cesar was next, and him we now obey;
With reverence be the sacred shade ador'd,
But war has given us now another lord:
To Cæsar and superior chance we yield:
All was determin'd in Amathia's field.
Nor shall our arms on other leaders wait,
Nor for uncertain hopes molest the state,
We follow'd Pompey once, but now we follow fate.
What terms, what safety, can we hope for now,
But what the victor's mercy shall allow?

And as Rome's fairest light and brightest glory Once Pompey's presence justify'd the cause,

shone.

Then fought we for our liberties and laws;

With him the honours of that cause lie dead,
And all the sanctity of war is fled.

If, Cato, thou for Rome these arms dost bear,
If still thy country only be thy care,
Seek we the legions where Rome's ensigns fly,
Where her proud eagles wave their wings on high:
No matter who to Pompey's power succeeds,
We follow where a Roman consul leads."

This said, he leap'd aboard; the youthful sort
Join in his flight, and haste to leave the port;
The senseless crowd their liberty disdain,
And long to wear victorious Cæsar's chain.
Tyrannic power now sudden seem'd to threat
The ancient glories of Rome's free-born state,
Till Cato spoke, and thus deferr'd her fate:
"Did then your vows and servile prayers conspire
Nought but a hasty master to desire?
Did you, when eager for the battle, come
The slaves of Pompey, not the friends of Rome?
Now, weary of the toil, from war you fly,
And idly lay your useless armour by;
Your hands neglect to wield the shining sword,
Nor can you fight but for a king and lord.
Some mighty chief you want, for whom to sweat;
Yourselves you know not, or at least forget,
And fondly bleed, that others may be great:
Meanly you toil, to give yourselves away;
And die, to leave the world a tyrant's prey.
The gods and Fortune do at length afford
A cause most worthy of a Roman sword.
At length 't is safe to conquer. Pompey now
Cannot, by your success, too potent grow;
Yet now, ignobly, you withhold your hands,
When nearer liberty your aid demands.
Of three who durst the sovereign power invade,
Two by your fortune's kinder doom lie dead;
And shall the Pharian sword and Parthian bow
Do more for liberty and Rome than you?
Base as you are, in vile subjection go,
And scorn what Ptolemy did ill bestow.
Ignobly innocent, and meanly good,

You durst not stain your hardy hands in blood;
Feebly awhile you fought, but soon did yield,
Aud fled the first from dire Pharsalia's field;
Go then secure, for Cæsar will be good,
Will pardon those who are with ease subdu'd;
The pitying victor will in mercy spare
The wretch, who never durst provoke his war.
Go, sordid slaves! one lordly master gone,
Like heir-looms go from father to the son.
Still to enhance your servile merit more,
Bear sad Cornelia weeping from the shore;
Meanly for hire expose the matron's life,
Metellus' daughter sell, and Pompey's wife;
Take too his sons: let Cæsar find in you
Wretches that may e'en Ptolemy out-do.
But let not my devoted life be spar'd.
The tyrant greatly shall that deed reward;
Such is the price of Cato's hated head,
That all your former wars shall well be paid;
Kill me, and in my blood do Cæsar right,
'Tis mean to have no other guilt but flight."
He said, and stopp'd the fiving naval power;
Back' they return'd, repenting, to the shore.
As when the bees their waxen town forsake,
Careless in air their wandering way they take;
No more in clustering swarins condens'd they fly,
But fleet uncertain through the various sky;
No more from flowers they suck the liquid sweet,
But all their care and industry forget:

Then if at length the tinkling brass they hear,
With swift amaze their flight they soon forbear;
Sudden their flowery labours they renew,
Hang on the thyme, and sip the baliny dew.
Meantime secure on Hybla's fragrant plain,
With joy exults the happy shepherd swain;
Proud that his art had thus preserv'd his store,
He scorns to think his homely cottage poor.
With such prevailing force did Cato's care
The fierce impatient soldiers' minds prepare,
To learn obedience, and endure the war.

And now their minds, unknowing of repose,
With busy toil to exercise he chose;
Still with successive labours are they ply'd,
And oft in long and weary marches try'd.
Before Cyrene's walls they now sit down;
And here the victor's mercy well was shown,
He takes no vengeance of the captive town;
Patient he spares, and bids the vanquish'd live,
Since Cato, who could conquer, could forgive.
Hence, Libyan Juba's realms they meant t'ex-
plore,

Juba, who borders on the swarthy Moor;
But Nature's boundaries the journey stay,
The Syrts are fix'd athwart the middle way;
Yet led by daring virtue on they press,
Scorn opposition, and still hope success.

When Nature's hand the first formation try'd,
When seas from lands she did at first divide,
The Syrts, not quite of sea nor land bereft,
A mingled mass uncertain still she left;
For nor the land with seas is quite o'er-spread,
Nor sink the waters deep their oozy bed,
Nor earth defends its shore, nor lifts aloft its head.
The site with neither, and with each complies,
Doubtful and inaccessible it lies;

Or 't is a sea with shallows bank'd around,
Or 't is a broken land with waters drown'd;
Here shores advanc'd o'er Neptune's rule we find,
And there an inland ocean lags behind.
Thus Nature's purpose by herself destroy'd,
Is useless to herself and unemploy'd,
And part of her creation still is void.
Perhaps, when first the world and time began,
Her swelling tides and plenteous waters ran;
But long confining on the burnin zone,
The sinking seas have felt the neighbouring Sun:
Still by degrees we see how they decay,
And scarce resist the thirsty god of day.
Perhaps, in distant ages, 'twili be found,
When future suns have run the burning round,
These Syrts shall a 1 be dry and solid ound;
Small are the depths th ir scanty waves retain,
And earth grows daily on the yielding main.

And now the loaden fleet with active oars
Divide the liquid plain, and leave the shores,
When cloudy skies a gathering storm presage,
And Auster from the south began to rage.
Full from the land the sounding tempest roars,
Repels the swelling surge, and sweeps the shores;
The wind pursues, dives on the rolling sand,
And gives new limits to the growing land.
'Spite of the seaman's toil, the storin prevails;
In vain with skilful strength he hands the sails,
In vain the cordy cables bind them fast,
At once it rips and rends them from the mast;
At once the winds the fluttering canvass tear,
Then whirl and whisk it through the sportive air.
Some, timely for the rising rage prepar'd,
Furl the loose sheet, and lash it to the yard:

In vain their care; sudden the furious blast
Snaps by the board, and bears away the mast;
Of tackling, sails, and masts, at once bereft,
The ship a naked helpless hull is left. [way,
Forc'd round and round, she quits her purpos'd
And bounds uncertain o'er the swelling sea.
But happier some a steady course maintain,
Who stand far out, and keep the deeper main.
Their masts they cut, and driving with the tide,
Safe o'er the surge beneath the tempest ride:
In vain did, from the southern coast, their foe,
All black with clouds, old stormy Auster blow;
Lowly secure amidst the waves they lay, [way.
Old Ocean heav'd his back, and roll'd them on their
Some on the shallows strike, and doubtful stand,
Part beat by waves, part fix'd upon the sand.
Now pent amidst the shoals the billows roar,
Dash on the banks, and scorn the new-made shore:
Now by the wind driven on in heads they swell,
The stedfast banks both winds and waves repel:
Still with united force they rage in vain,
The sandy piles their stations fix'd maintain,
And lift their heads secure amidst the watery plain.
There 'scap'd from seas, upon the faithless strand,
With weeping eyes the shipwreck'd seamen stand,
And, cast ashore, look vainly out for land.
Thus some were lost; but far the greater part,
Preserv'd from danger by the pilot's art,
Keep on their course, a happier fate partake,
And reach in safety the Tritonian lake.
These waters to the tuneful god are dear,
Whose vocal shell the sea-green Nereids hear;
These Pallas loves, so tells reporting fame,
Here first from Heaven to Earth the goddess came,
(Heaven's neighbourhood the warmer clime be-
trays,

And speaks the nearer Sun's immediate rays)
Here her first footsteps on the brink she staid,
Here in the watery glass her form survey'd, [maid.
And call'd herself from hence the chaste Tritonian
Here Lethe's streams, from secret springs below,
Rise to the light; here heavily, and slow,
The silent dull forgetful waters flow.
Here by the wakeful dragon kept of old,
Hesperian plants grew rich with living gold;
Long since, the fruit was from the branches torn,
And now the gardens their lost honours mourn.
Such was in ancient times the tale receiv'd,
Such by our good forefathers was believ'd;
Nor let inquirers the tradition wrong,
Or dare to question, now, the poet's sacred song.
Then take it for a truth, the wealthy wood
Here under golden boughs low bending stood;
On some large tree his folds the serpent wound,
The fair Hesperian virgins watch'd around,
And join'd to guard the rich forbidden ground.
But great Alcides came to end their care,
Stript the gay grove, and left the branches bare;
Then back returning sought the Argive shore,
And the bright spoil to proud Eurystheus bore.
These famous regions and the Syrts o'erpast,
They reach'd the Garamantian coast at last;
Here, under Pompey's care the navy lies,
Beneath the gentlest clime of Libya's skies.
But Cato's soul, by dangers unrestrain'd,
Ease and a dull inactive life disdain'd.
His daring virtue urges to go on,
Through desert lands, and nations yet unknown;
To march, and prove th' inhospitable ground,
To shun the Syrts, and lead the soldier round.

Since now tempestuous seasons vex the sea,
And the declining year forbids the watery way;
He sees the cloudy drizzling winter near,
And hopes kind rains may cool the sultry air:
So haply may they journey on secure,
Nor burning heats, nor killing frosts endure;
But while cool winds the winter's breath supplies,
With gentle warmth the Libyan sun may rise,
And both may join and temper well the skies.
But ere the toilsome march he undertook,
The hero thus the list'ning host bespoke: [good,
"Fellows in arms! whose bliss, whose chiefest
Is Rome's defence, and freedom bought with blood;
You, who, to die with liberty, from far
Have follow'd Cato in this fatal war,
Be now for virtue's noblest task prepar'd,
For labours, many, perilous, and hard.
Think through what burning climes, what wilds
we go:

No leafy shades the naked deserts know,
Nor silver streams through flowery meadows flow
But horrours there, and various deaths abound,
And serpents guard th' inhospitable ground.
Hard is the way; but thus our fate demands;
Rome and her laws we seek amidst these sands.
Let those who, glowing with their country's love,
Resolve with me these dreadful plains to prove,
Nor of return nor safety once debate,
But only dare to go, and leave the rest to fate.
Think not I mean the dangers to disguise,
Or hide them from the cheated vulgar's eyes.
Those, only those, shall in my fate partake,
Who love the daring for the danger's sake;
Those who can suffer all the worst can come,
And think it what they owe themselves and Rome
If any yet shall doubt, or yet shall fear,
If life be, more than liberty, his care;
Here, ere we journey farther, let him stay,
Inglorious let him, like a slave, obey,
And seek a master in some safer way.
Foremost, behold, I lead you to the toil,
My feet shall foremost print the dusty soil
Strike me the first, thou flaming god of day,
First let me feel thy fierce, thy scorching rays
Ye living poisons all, ye snaky train,
Meet me the first upon the fatal plain.
In every pain, which you, my warriors, fear,
Let me be first, and teach you how to bear.
Who sees me pant for drought, or fainting first,
Let him upbraid me, and complain of thirst.
If e'er for shelter to the shades I fly,

Me let him curse, me, for the sultry sky.
If while the weary soldier marches on,
Your leader by distinguish'd ease be known,
Forsake my cause, and leave me there alone.
The sands, the serpents, thirst, and burning heat,
Are dear to patience, and to virtue sweet;
Virtue, that scorns on cowards' terms to please,
Or cheaply to be bought, or won with ease;
But then she joys, then smiles upon her state,
Then fairest to herself, then most complete,
When glorious danger makes her truly great.
So Libya's plains alone shall wipe away
The foul dishonours of Pharsalia's day;
So shall your courage now transcend that fear;
You fled with glory there, to conquer here."
He said; and hardy love of toil inspir'd;
And every breast with godlike ardour fir'd.
Straight, careless of return, without delay,
Through the wide waste he took his pathless way.