 | Miscellanies, in Verse and Prose |  |
The Beginning of Lucan, Book 8. English'd.
A narrow pass to shady Tempe leads,And thro' it his Retreat the Chieftain speeds;
He spurs his harass'd Courser o'er the Plain,
The Windings of th' Hæmonian wood to gain,
And leave a doubtful track along the maze
Of various paths, and interfering ways.
The rustling boughs, that bend with ev'ry blast,
Awake his terror, and augment his haste:
Each following friend appears a following foe;
He starts, and shrinks, to shun the threaten'd blow:
Tho' fallen from the height where once he stood,
He knows the value still of Pompey's blood;
And deems the purchase of His head the same
As Cæsar's in exchange from him might claim.
22
In gloomy vales, and solitudes untry'd:
Friends, on the road to join his camp, as yet
Untold the tidings of his late defeat,
Their ruin'd Lord with dumb amazement meet.
A Turn so strange, so violent, and short,
Can scarce gain credit from his own report.
How hard a fate the Warrior's fall attends!
Avoiding Foes; but most avoiding Friends:
He would have chose the safer way, unknown,
To wander thro' the World, no more his own;
But Fortune, long propitious to his Name,
By past renown, enhances present shame,
And sinks him lower, with the weight of Fame:
Embitter'd by comparison, agree
Her diff'ring Lots to heighten Misery.
His Honours, early ripe, disgrace him now;
He hates the Laurels that adorn'd his Brow
In bloom of glorious Youth, the Pirates war,
And Pontus chain'd to his triumphal Car.
'Tis thus, when life beyond dominion stays:
The curse of mighty Minds is length of days.
Unless kind death o'ertakes his waning state,
In time preventing the reverse of fate;
Who would on Fortune's treach'rous smiles rely,
Or dare be happy, if he dare not die?
23
Of Roman blood ran purple to the Main,
And shar'd the carnage of Pharsalia's plain.
Thence in a boat, for inland streams design'd,
And far unequal to the tide and wind,
The Pirate's scourge by stealth is wafted o'er;
Much of the sea afraid, of Cæsar more.
For Lesbos, with a Lover's haste, he ply'd;
For Lesbos, the retreat that hid his Bride
From War's alarms: but more afflicted there,
Than if Pharsalia's field had pierc'd the Fair,
With dying groans: in fansy'd fight engag'd,
Her heavy heart the dire event presag'd.
And as she lay, with anxious dreams oppress'd,
The trembling bed her agonies confess'd:
Thessalia haunts her each returning night;
And, still as day renews the chearless light,
She runs to reach the land's remotest bound;
And climbs the steepy cliff, to gaze around:
Her watchful eyes are still the first to hail
The distant prospect of each bending sail:
But then, what fate attends her Soul's desire,
She fears to know, and dares not once inquire.
Behold! a ship for Lesbos bound! at first
Her freight is dubious; but expect the worst:
The messenger of fate you know too well;
For Pompey comes his own sad tale to tell.
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You only fear what you may now lament.
The Vessel just at hand she flew to meet,
And saw the malice of her fate complete:
Her Husband ghastly pale; the robes he wore
Were black with dust; his grisly locks hung o'er
His Face uncomb'd: by sorrow and surprize
The light was ravish'd from Cornelia's eyes.
The blood forsook her face; her limbs beneath
The weight of woe dissolv'd; she heav'd for breath,
And welcom'd, as she thought, the stroke of death;
When, issuing from his anchor'd Bark, to Land,
Came Pompey, traversing the lonely strand
Hush'd by his near approach, no longer dare
Her faithful Maids to utter their despair,
And vainly strive the fainting Dame to rear:
But Pompey strain'd her in a warm Embrace,
And soon the kindling blood renew'd its race;
She felt his hands, and now could bear his face:
When thus, in scorn of fate, the Godlike Chief
Reprov'd the licence of unbounded grief:
Let no mischance that glorious Spirit tame;
But rival all your Ancestors in fame:
Let laws or arms the Mens ambition raise;
A wretched Husband is your Sex's praise:
Have courage then! regard my low estate
With Nuptial constancy, and combat Fate:
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Abandon'd by the World, endear'd to Thee:
Of pow'r and pomp by fickle chance bereft,
By kings deserted, and by senates left,
I make the glory yours; and yours alone,
To follow him whom all besides disown.
A loyal Wife before her Lord's decease
Should feel no grief; or none above encrease:
If wo must triumph o'er a soul so brave,
Reserve its last distress for Pompey's grave:
No damage you from my defeat derive;
Mine is the loss; yet I that loss survive.
'Tis true, my better fortune is no more;
On that you doated, if you that deplore.
The well-known voice alarms the Dame: with pain
Her feeble knees their wonted weight sustain;
And as with melting eyes her Lord she view'd,
A mixture of Laments and groans ensu'd.
Ah! wretched me! my Husband's bane, she cry'd;
And twice the public curse, as twice a Bride!
O! had I been for Cæsar's bed decreed,
Then I had prov'd the Tyrant's foe indeed.
Me dire Erynnis to thy arms convey'd,
And join'd to blast me with my Crassus' Shade,
Whose loss on Parthian plains, deriv'd from me,
Has been the prelude of a worse to thee;
For Rome, and freedom, when their cause was mine,
Could find no friends among the Powers divine.
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O! Pompey to Cornelia's bed betray'd!
Could glory to so high a pitch advance?
And falls it thus, the game of giddy chance?
How dearly now my impious love I rue;
Since wedding me was wedding ruin too!
Take then my life in vengeance of th' offence;
A slender, but a willing recompence.
I rather would have dy'd, to save my Lord,
A victim to his yet victorious sword:
The blow, struck then, had barr'd th' impending fate;
Nor would be yet for punishment too late.
Come, Julia! come; whatever distant place
Beholds thee triumph in thy Lord's disgrace,
Let my devoted head thy rage atone,
And spare my Pompey then; or spare thy own.
She spoke; and, sinking on his breast again,
To kind compassion mov'd the weeping Train:
The Hero's soul the tender sorrow shar'd;
And Lesbos drew the tears Thessalia spar'd.
| Miscellanies, in Verse and Prose | |