Some fled amaz'd, while vainly valiant some
Stood, but to meet in arms a nobler doom.
Where-e'er they stood, now scatter'd lie the slain,
Scarce yet a few for coming deaths remain,
And clouds of flying javelins fall in vain.
Here fwift confuming flames the victors throw,
And here the ram impetuous aims a blow;
Aloft the nodding turrets feel the ftroke,
And the vast rampart groans beneath the shock.
And now propitious fortune feem'd to doom
Freedom and peace, to Pompey, and to Rome;
High o'er the vanquish'd works his eagles tower,
And vindicate the world from Cæfar's power.
But (what nor Cæfar, nor his fortune cou'd)
What not ten thoufand warlike hands withstood,
Scæva refifts alone; repels the force,
And stops the rapid victor in his course.
Scæva! a name erewhile to fame unknown,
And firft diftinguifh'd on the Gallic Rhone;
There seen in hardy deeds of arms to shine,
He reach'd the honours of the Latian vine.
Daring and bold, and ever prone to ill,
Inur'd to blood, and active to fulfil
The dictates of a lawless tyrant's will;
Nor virtue's love, nor reafon's laws he knew,
But, careless of the right, for hire his sword he drew. 245
Thus courage by an impious cause is curst,
And he that is the braveft, is the worst.
Soon as he faw his fellows fhun the fight,
And feek their fafety in ignoble flight,
Whence does, he faid, this coward's terror grow,
This fhame, unknown to Cæfar's arms till now?
Can you, ye flavish herd, thus tamely yield?
Thus fly, unwounded, from the bloody field?
Behold, where pil'd in flaughter'd heaps on high,
Firm to the laft, your brave companions lie;
Then blush to think what wretched lives you fave,
From what renown you fly, from what a glorious grave.
Though facred fame, though virtue yield to fear,
Let rage, let indignation, keep you here.
We! we the weakest, from the reft are chofe,
To yield a paffage to our fcornful foes!
Yet, Pompey, yet, thou shalt be yet withstood,
And stain thy victor's laurel deep in blood.
With pride, 'tis true, with joy I should have dy'd,
If haply I had fall'n by Cæfar's fide;
But fortune has the noble death deny'd.
Then Pompey, thou, thou on my fame shalt wait,
Do thou be witnefs, and applaud my fate.
Now push we on, disdain we now to fear,
A thousand wounds let every bofom bear,
Till the keen fword be blunt, be broke the pointed fpear.
And fee the clouds of dusty battle rise!
Hark how the fhout runs rattling through the skies!
The diftant legions catch the founds from far,
And Cæfar liftens to the thundering war,
He comes, he comes, yet ere his foldier dies,
Like lightning fwift the winged warrior flies:
Haste then to death, to conquest haste away;
Well do we fall, for Cæfar wins the day.
He spoke, and straight, as at the trumpet's found, 280 Rekindled warmth in every breast was found; Recall'd from flight, the youth admiring wait, To mark their daring fellow-foldier's fate,
To fee if haply virtue might prevail,
And, ev'n beyond their hopes, do more than greatly fail.
High on the tottering wall he rears his head,
With flaughter'd carcases around him spread;
With nervous arms uplifting these he throws,
Thefe rolls oppreffive, on ascending foes.
Each where materials for his fury lie,
And all the ready ruins arms fupply:
Even his fierce felf he seems to aim below,
Headlong to shoot, and dying dart a blow.
Now his tough ftaff repels the fierce attack,
And tumbling, drives the bold affailants back :
Now heads, now hands he lops, the carcafe falls,
Whilst the clench'd fingers gripe the topmost walls:
Here ftones he heaves; the mass descending full,
Crushes the brain, and fhivers the frail fcull.
Here burning pitchy brands he whirls around;
Infix'd, the flames hifs in the liquid wound,
Deep drench'd in death, in flowing crimson drown'd.
And now the fwelling heaps of flaughter'd foes,
Sublime and equal to the fortress rose;
Whence, forward, with a leap, at once he fprung, 305 And fhot himself amidst the hoftile throng.
So daring, fierce with rage, so void of fear,
Bounds forth the spotted pard, and fcorns the hunter's
The closing ranks the warrior straight enfold,
And, compafs'd in their fteely circle, hold.
Undaunted ftill, around the ring he roams,
Fights here and there, and every where o'ercomes;
Till, clogg'd with blood, his fword obeys but ill
The dictates of its vengeful master's will;
Edgelefs it falls, and though it pierce no more,
Still breaks the batter'd bones, and bruifes fore.
Mean time, on him, the crouding war is bent,
And darts from every hand, to him are fent :
It look'd as fortune did in odds delight,
And had in cruel sport ordain'd the fight;
A wondrous match of war she seem'd to make,
Her thousands here, and there her one to stake;
As if on nightly terms in lifts they ran,
And armies were but equal to the man.
A thousand darts upon his buckler ring,
A thousand javelins round his temples fing;
Hard bearing on his head, with many a blow,
His steely helm is inward taught to bow.
The miffive arms, fix'd all around, he wears,
And ev❜n his fafety in his wounds he bears,
Fenc'd with a fatal wood, a deadly grove of spears.
Cease, ye Pompeian warriors! cease the ftrife,
Nor, vainly, thus attempt this fingle life;
Your darts, your idle javelins caft afide,
And other arms for Scæva's death provide :
The forceful rams refiftless horns prepare,
With all the ponderous vast machines of war;
Let dreadful flames, let maffy rocks be thrown,
With engines thunder on, and break him down,
And win this Cæfar's foldier, like a town.
At length, his fate difdaining to delay,
He hurls his fhield's neglected aid away,
Refolves no part whate'er from death to hide,
But ftands unguarded now on every fide.
Incumber'd fore with many a painful wound,
Tardy and stiff he treads the hostile round;
Gloomy and fierce his eyes the croud furvey,
Mark where to fix, and fingle out the. prey.
Such, by Getulian hunters compass'd in,
The vast unwieldy elephant is feen :
All cover'd with a steely shower from far,
Rouzing he shakes, and fheds the fcatter'd war;
In vain the distant troops the fight renew,
And with fresh rage the ftubborn foe purfue;
Unconquer'd ftill the mighty favage stands,
And fcorns the malice of a thousand hands.
Not all the wounds a thousand darts can make,
Though all find place, a fingle life can take.
When lo! addreft with fome fuccefsful vow,
A fhaft, fure flying from a Cretan bow,
Beneath the warrior's brow was feen to light,
And funk, deep piercing the left orb of fight.
But he (fo rage infpir'd, and mad difdain)
Remorfelefs fell, and fenfelefs of the pain,
Tore forth the bearded arrow from the wound,
With ftringy nerves befmear'd and wrapp'd around,
And ftamp'd the gory jelly on the ground.
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