Wheeling around the hoftile line they wind,
While lightly arm'd the fhot fucceed behind.
In various ways the various bands engage,
And hurl upon the foe the missile rage;
There fiery darts and rocky fragments fly,
And heating bullets whistle through the sky :
Of feather'd shafts, a cloud thick fhading goes,
From Arab, Mede, and Ituræan bows :
But driven by random aim they seldom wound;
At first they hide the heaven, then ftrew the ground; 750
While Roman hands unerring mischief fend,
And certain deaths on every pile attend.
But Cæfar, timely careful to fupport His wavering front against the first effort, Had plac'd his bodies of reserve behind,
And the ftrong rear with chofen cohorts lin'd.
There, as the carelefs foe the fight pursue,
A fudden band and ftable forth he drew;
When foon, oh fhame! the loose barbarians yield,
Scattering their broken fquadrons o'er the field, 760
And fhew, too late, that slaves attempt in vain,
The facred cause of freedom to maintain.
The fiery fteeds, impatient of a wound,
Hurl their neglected riders to the ground;
Or on their friends with rage ungovern'd turn,
And trampling o'er the helpless foot are borne.
Hence foul confufion and difmay fucceed,
The victors murder, and the vanquish'd bleed :
Their weary hands the tir'd deftroyers ply,
Scarce can thefe kill, fo faft as thofe can die.
Oh, that Emathia's ruthlefs guilty plain
Had been contented with this only stain ;
With these rude bones had ftrewn her verdure o'er,
And dy'd her springs with none but Afian gore!
But if fo keen her thirst for Roman blood,
Let none but Romans make the flaughter good;
Let not a Mede nor Cappadocian fall,
No bold Iberian, nor rebellious Gaul:
Let these alone furvive for times to come,
And be the future citizens of Rome.
But fear on all alike her powers employ'd,
Did Cæfar's business, and like fate destroy'd.
Prevailing ftill the victors held their course,
Till Pompey's main referve oppos'd their force;
There, in his strength, the chief unfhaken stood, 785
Repell'd the foe, and made the combat good;
There in fufpence th' uncertain battle hung,
And Cæfar's favouring goddefs doubted long;
There no proud monarchs led their vaffals on,
Nor eastern bands in gorgeous purple fhone ;
There the last force of laws and freedom lay,
And Roman patriots ftruggled for the day.
What parricides the guilty fcene affords !
Sires, fons, and brothers, rush on mutual fwords!
There every facred bond of nature bleeds;
There met the war's worst rage, and Cæfar's blackest
But, oh my Mufe, the mournful theme forbear,
And stay thy lamentable numbers here;
Let not my verfe to future times convey,
What Rome committed on this dreadful day;
In fhades and filence hide her crimes from fame,
And spare thy miserable country's shame.
But Cæfar's rage fhall with oblivion strive,
And for eternal infamy furvive.
From rank to rank, unweary'd, still he flies,
And with new fires their fainting wrath supplies.
His greedy eyes each fign of guilt explore,
And mark whose sword is deepest dy'd in gore ;
Obferve where pity and remorfe prevail,
What arm strikes faintly, and what cheek turns pale. 810 Or, while he rides the flaughter'd heaps around,
And views fome foe expiring on the ground,
His cruel hands the gushing blood restrain,
And strive to keep the parting foul in pain :
As when Bellona drives the world to war,
Or Mars comes thundering in his Thracian car ;
Rage horrible darts from his Gorgon shield,
And gloomy terror broods upon the field;
Hate, fell and fierce, the dreadful gods impart,
And urge the vengeful warrior's heaving heart:
The many fhout, arms clash, the wounded cry,
And one promifcuous peal groans upwards to the sky.
Nor furious Cæsar, on Emathia's plains,
Less terribly the mortal strife sustains ;
Each hand unarm'd he fills with means of death, 825
And cooling wrath rekindles at his breath :
Now with his voice, his gefture now, he strives,
Now with his lance the lagging soldier drives :
The weak he ftrengthens, and confirms the ftrong,
And hurries war's impetuous ftream along.
Strike home, he cries, and let your swords erase
Each well-known feature of the kindred face:
Nor waste your fury on the vulgar band;
See! where the hoary doting fenate stand;
There laws and right at once you may confound, 835
And liberty fhall bleed at every wound.
The curs'd deftroyer spoke; and, at the word,
The purple nobles sunk beneath the fword:
The dying patriots groan upon the ground,
Illuftrious names, for love of laws renown'd.
The great Metelli and Torquati bleed,
Chiefs worthy, if the state had so decreed,
And Pompey were not there, mankind to lead.
Say thou! thy finking country's only prop,
Glory of Rome, and liberty's last hope;
What helm, oh Brutus! could, amidst the croud,
Thy facred undistinguish'd visage shroud?
Where fought thy arm that day? But, ah! forbear! Nor rush unwary on the pointed spear;
Seek not to haften on untimely fate,
But patient for thy own Emathia wait:
Nor hunt fierce Cæfar on this bloody plain,
To-day thy fteel pursues his life in vain.
Somewhat is wanting to the tyrant yet,
To make the measure of his crimes complete;
As yet he has not every law defy'd,
Nor reach'd the utmost heights of daring pride.
Ere long thou shalt behold him Rome's proud lord,
And ripen'd by ambition for thy sword :
Then, thy griev'd country vengeance shall demand, 860
And ask the victim at thy righteous hand.
Among huge heaps of the Patrician flain,
And Latian chiefs, who ftrew'd that purple plain,
Recording ftory has diftinguish'd well,
How brave, unfortunate Domitius fell.
In every lofs of Pompey ftill he shar'd,
And dy'd in liberty, the best reward;
Though vanquish'd oft by Cæfar, ne'er enflav'd,
Ev'n to the laft, the tyrant's power he brav'd :
Mark'd o'er with many a glorious ftreaming wound, 870
In pleasure funk the warrior to the ground;
No longer forc'd on vilest terms to live,
For chance to doom, and Cæfar to forgive.
Him, as he pafs'd infulting o'er the field,
Roll'd in his blood, the victor proud beheld :
And can, he cry'd, the fierce Domitius fall,
Forfake his Pompey, and expecting Gaul?
Muft the war lofe that ftill fuccefsful fword,
And my neglected province want a lord?
He fpoke; when, lifting flow his clofing eyes,
Fearless the dying Roman thus replies :
Since wickednefs ftands unrewarded yet,
Nor Cæfar's arms their wifh'd fuccefs have met;
Free and rejoicing to the fhades I go,
And leave my chief ftill equal to his foe;
And if my hopes divine thy doom aright,
Yet fhalt thou bow thy vanquish'd head ere night.
Dire punishments the righteous gods decree,
For injur'd Rome, for Pompey, and for me;
In hell's dark realms thy tortures I fhall know,
And hear thy ghost lamenting loud below.
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