University of Virginia Library


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Translations from Lucan,

Occasion'd by the Tragedy of CATO.

The Character of Cato .

From Lucan . BOOK II.

Written in the Year 1713.
[_]

Lucan, in this Description of Cato, had as strict a Regard to Truth as any Historian. His private Life, the Simplicity of his Manners and Habit, his Notions of Philosophy, and his Manner of Behaviour, are excellently painted.

------ Hi mores, hæc duri immota Catonis
Secta fuit. ------
These Cato's Morals were, and this the Kind
Of His rough Sect, and His severer Mind,
A due proportion'd Medium to attend,
And think, while Living, to respect his End;

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To follow Nature, and observe her Laws,
To pour His Life out in his Country's Cause;
From mean Ideas, to enlarge his Mind,
Nor think his Actions to Himself confin'd,
Nor Cato born for One, but All Mankind.
He eat for Hunger, not to please the Sense,
A happy Epicure in Abstinence;
His House, to keep out Cold, alone did seem;
Convenience was Magnificence to Him.
Upon his Back a Hairy Gown he bore,
Such as His Sabine great Forefathers wore:
Such as the Face of Antique Garbs express,
This was His Pomp and Gaiety of Dress:
He sought the Pleasure of a chast Embrace,
For One great End, to propagate his Race:
Severely Honest, Just without Allay,
Studious the Common Good alone to weigh.
At once Discreet, and fond in ev'ry View,
His Country's Husband, and Her Father too.

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Him Brutus found with wakeful Care oppress'd,
The Publick Good revolving in his Breast:
Big with the Fate and Destiny of Rome,
Her Children's Fortune, and His Country's Doom.
Fearful what each might Act and each Endure,
But unconcern'd, and for Himself secure.
O! wou'd the Gods above and those below
In Mercy hearken to their Cato's Vow,
And on This willingly devoted Head
All their collected Stores of Vengeance shed!
For Rome of old her Decii could fall,
In one Illustrious Ruin saving all:
That thus I might this single Life expose,
To stop her Plagues, and expiate her Woes!
O! against Me may both their Hosts engage;
Set up the happy Mark of Publick Rage:
Hither fly ev'ry Dart, launch ev'ry Spear,
And ev'ry vile Barbarian Arm strike Here.

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I wou'd sustain each Individual's Share;
Be pierc'd, be gor'd, by ev'ry Murd'rer there,
And all their Wounds in bleeding Transport bear.
Could but this Blood for her Preservance spilt,
Redeem the Nation, and attone her Guilt:
Could this one Sacrifice prevent her Doom,
And quit the Score between her Gods and Rome.

A Description of the Field of Battel, after Cæsar was Conqueror at Pharsalia.

From the VIIth Book of Lucan.

Then dire Pharsalia's Plain all breathing Blood
Call'd forth the Wolves and Tygers from the Wood,
And gorg'd the Lyons with her horrid Food.
Each left his common Prey, his Fellow-Beast,
To riot on a more luxurious Feast;
The Bears forsook their Caves for this Repast,
And Dogs obscene ran howling o'er the Wast;

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All Animals that scent the Tainted Air,
Of Smell sagacious, came exulting there,
The Birds that wont at Battels to appear,
Move with the Camp, and hover in the Rear,
Came numberless: The Kinds that us'd of old
To change for milder Nile the Thracian Cold,
Forgot the Season in the Prey's Delight,
And wing'd their Western Way with later Flight.
Never such Flocks of Vultures heretofore
Obscur'd the Sky, and feather'd all Heav'n o'er,
Nor such uncommon Weight the loaded Æther bore.
Each desolated Wood sent forth her Kind,
The Wood now lab'ring only with the Wind;
All Places round the mighty Numbers fill'd,
And Roman Blood from ev'ry Tree distill'd.
Oft on the impious Standards which they bore
Trickled in frequent Drops the Putrid Gore;
Oft as the Vulture, weary'd out with Toil,
Her Talons weaken'd, and o'er-charg'd with Spoil,

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Shook her wet Pinions in the Airy Space,
The scatter'd Blood his Triumph to disgrace,
Fell from on high, and stain'd the Victor's Face.
Nor yet could all the Number of the Slain,
This Sepulchre, this living Grave obtain,
And, by the Beasts, converted into Food,
Or harden into Bone, or flow in Blood;
The Beasts themselves their inner Bowels spare,
Nor think the vital Marrow worth their Care;
Nicely the Limbs they Taste, reject, and chuse,
And more than half the Roman Host refuse.
Whatever Coarses in the Field they find,
Touch'd by the Sun, or Tainted by the Wind,
They careless pass, and leave disdainfully behind.