strictly to truth, he seems to have as fair a pretence to the character of an historian; for he equally performs each of these offices. His expression is bold and lively; his sentiments are clear, his fictions within compass of probability, and his digressions proper: his orations artful, correct, manly, and full of matter. In the other parts of his work, he is grave, fluent, copious, and elegant; abounding with great variety, and wonderful erudition. And in unriddling the intricacy of contrivances, designs, and actions, his style is so masterly, that you rather seem to see, than read of those transactions. But as for enterprises and battles, you imagine them not related, but acted: towns alarmed, armies engaged, the eagerness and terrour of the several soldiers, seem present to your view. As our author is frequent and fertile in descriptions; and none more skilful in discovering the secret springs of action, and their rise in human passions: as he is an acute searcher into the manners of men, and most dextrous in applying all sorts of learning to his subject: what other cosmographer, astrologer, philosopher, or mathematician, do we stand in need of, while we read him? Who has more judiciously handled, or treated with more delicacy, whatever topics his fancy has led him to, or have casually fallen in his way? Maro is, without doubt, a great poet; so is Lucan. In so apparent an equality, it is hard to decide which excels: for both have justly obtained the highest commendations. Maro is rich and magnificent; Lucan sumptuous and splendid: the first is discreet, inventive, and sublime; the latter free, harmonious, and full of spirit. Virgil seems to move with the devout solemnity of a reverend prelate: Lucan to march with the noble haughtiness of a victorious general. One owes most to labour and application; the other to nature and practice: one lulls the soul with the sweetness and music of his verse, the other raises it by his fire and rapture. Virgil is sedate, happy in his conceptions, free from faults; Lucan quick, various, and florid: he seems to fight with stronger weapons, this with more. The first surpasses all in solid strength; the latter excels in vigour and poignancy. You would think that the one sounds rather a larger and deeper toned trumpet; the other a less indeed, but clearer. In short, so great is the affinity, and the struggle for precedence between them, that though nobody be allowed to come up to that divinity in Maro; yet had he not been possessed of the chief seat on Parnassus, our author's claim to it had been indisputable.

February 26, 1718-19.

LUCAN'S PHARSALIA.

TRANSLATED BY ROWE.

LUCAN'S PHARSALIA.

IN TEN BOOKS.

BOOK I.

THE ARGUMENT.

A shatter'd world in wild disorder tost,
Leagues, laws, and empire, in confusion lost;
Of all the woes which civil discords bring,
And Rome o'ercome by Roman arms, I sing.
What blind, detested madness could afford
Such horrid license to the murdering sword?

In the first book, after a proposition of his sub-Say, Romans, whence so dire a fury rose,
ject, a short view of the ruins occasioned by
the civil wars in Italy, and a compliment to
Nero, Lucan gives the principal causes of the
civil war, together with the characters of Cæsar
and Pompey: after that, the story properly
begins with Cæsar's passing the Rubicon, which
was the bound of his province towards Rome,
and his march to Ariminium. Thither the
tribunes and curio, who had been driven out
of the city by the opposite party, come to him,
and demand his protection. Then follows his
speech to his army, and a particular mention
of the several parts of Gaul from which his
troops were drawn together to his assistance.
From Cæsar, the poet turns to describe the
general consternation at Rome, and the flight
of great part of the senate and people at the
news of his march. From hence he takes oc-
casion to relate the foregoing prodigies, which
were partly on occasion of those panic terrours,
and likewise the ceremonies that were used by
the priests for purifying the city, and averting
the anger of the gods; and then ends this book
with the inspiration and prophecy of a Roman
matron, in which she enumerates the principal
events which were to happen in the course of
the civil war.

Could you in wars like these provoke your fate?
To glut with Latian blood your barbarous foes?
Wars, where no triumphs on the victor wait!
And rich in Roman spoi invade the sky;
While Babylon's proud spires yet rise so high,
While yet no vengeance is to Crassus paid,
But unatton'd repines the wandering shade!
What tracts of land, what realms unknown be
fore,

What crowns, what empires, might that blood
What seas wide-stretching to the distant shore,
With which Emathia's fatal fields were stain'd!
have gain'd,
Where Seres in their silke woods reside,
Where swift Araxes rolls his rapid tide:
Nile's secret fountain springing cleaves the ground;
Where'er (if such a nation can be found)
Where southern suns with double ardour rise,
Flame o'er the land, and scorch the mid-day
Where winter's hand the Scythian seas constrains,
skies;
Where'er the shady night and day-spring come,
And binds the frozen floods in crystal chains:
All had submitted to the yoke of Rome.

If such thy fond desire of impious war;
O Rome! if slaughter be thy only care,
Turn from thyself, at least, the destin'd wound,
Till thou art mistress of the world around,
And none to conquer but thyself be found,
Thy foes as yet a juster war afford,
And barbarous blood remains to glut thy sword.
But see! her hands on her own vitals seize,
And no destruction but her own can please,
Behold her fields unknowing of the plough!
Behold her palaces and towers laid low!
See where o'erthrown the massy column lies,
While weeds obscene above the comice rise.
Here gaping wide, half-ruin'd walls remain,
There mouldering pillars nodding roots sustain.

18

The landscape, once in various beauty spread,
With yellow harvests and the flowery mead,
Displays a wild uncultivated face,

Which bushy brakes and brambles vile disgrace:
No human footstep prints th' untrodden green,
No cheerful maid nor villager is scen.
E'en in her cities famous once and great,
Where thousands crowded in the noisy street,
No sound is heard of human voices now,
But whistling winds through empty dwellings blow;
While passing strangers wonder, if they spy
One single melancholy face go by.

Nor Pyrrhus' sword, nor Canne's fatal field,
Such universal desolation yield:

Her impious sons have her worst foes surpass'd,
And Roman hands have laid Hesperia waste.
But if our fates severely have decreed
No way but this for Nero to succeed;
If only thus our heroes can be gods,
And Earth must pay for their divine abodes;
If Heaven could not the thunderer obtain,
Till giants wars made room for Jove to reign,
'Tis just, ye gods, nor ought we to complain:
Opprest with death though dire Pharsalia groan,
Though Latian blood the Punic ghosts atone;
Though Pompey's hapless sons renew the war,
And Munda view the slaughter'd heaps from far;
Though meagre famine in Perusia reign,
Though Mutina with battles fill the plain;
Though Leuca's isle, and wide Ambracia's bay,
Record the rage of Actium's fatal day;
Though servile hands are arm'd to man the fleet,
And on Sicilian seas the navies meet;
All crimes, all horrours, we with joy regard,
[pay
Since thou, O Cæsar, art the great reward.
Vast are the thanks thy grateful Rome should
To wars, which usher in thy sacred sway.
When, the great business of the world achiev'd,
Late by the willing stars thou art receiv'd,
Through all the blissful seats the news shall roll,
And Heaven resound with joy from pole to pole.
Whether great Jove resign supreme command,
And trust his sceptre to thy abler hand;
Or if thou choose the empire of the day,
And make the Sun's unwilling steeds obey;
Auspicious if thou drive the flaming team,
While Earth rejoices in thy gentler beam;
Where'er thou reign, with one consenting voice,
The Gods and Nature shall approve thy choice.
But, oh! whatever be thy godhead great,
Fix not in regions too remote thy seat;
Nor deign thou near the frozen Bear to shine,
Nor where the sultry southern stars decline;
Less kindly thence thy influence shall come,
And thy blest rays obliquely visit Rome.
Press not too much on any part the sphere:
Hard were the task thy weight divine to bear;
Soon would the axis feel th' unusual load,
And groaning bend beneath th' incumbent god:
O'er the mid orb more equal shalt thou rise,
And with a juster balance fix the skies.
Serene for ever be that azure space,

No blackening clouds the purer Heaven disgrace,
Nor hide from Rome her Cæsar's radiant face.
Then shall mankind consent in sweet accord,
And warring nations sheath the wrathful sword;
Peace shall the world in friendly leagues compose,
And Janus' dreadful gates for ever close.
To me thy present godhead stands confest,
Oh let thy sacred fury fire my breast!

So thou vouchsafe to hear, let Phoebus dwell
Still uninvok'd in Cyrrha's mystic cell;
By me uncall'd, let sprightly Bacchus reign,
And lead the dance on Indian Nysa's plain.
To thee, O Cæsar, all my vows belong;
Do thou alone inspire the Roman song.

And now the mighty task demands our care,
The fatal source of discord to declare;
What cause accurst produc'd the dire event,
Why rage so dire the madding nations rent,
And peace was driven away by one consent.
But thus the malice of our fate commands,
And nothing great to long duration stands;
Aspiring Rome had risen too much in height,
And sunk beneath her own unweildy weight.
So shall one hour at last this globe control,
Break up the vast machine, dissolve the whole,
And time no more through measur'd ages roll.
Theu Chaos hoar shall seize his former right,
And reign with Anarchy and eldest Night;
The starry lamps shall combat in the sky,
And lost and blended in each other die;
Quench'd in the deep the heavenly fires shall fall,
And ocean cast abroad o'erspread the ball:
The Moon no more her well-known course shal

run,

But rise from western waves, and meet the Sun;
Ungovern'd shall she quit her ancient way,
Herself ambitious to supply the day:
Confusion wild shall all around be huri'd,
And discord and disorder tear the world.
Thus power and greatness to destruction haste,
Thus bounds to human happiness are plac'd,
And Jove forbids prosperity to last.
Yet Fortune, when she meant to wreak her hate,
From foreign foes preserv'd the Roman state,
Nor suffer'd barbarous hands to give the blow,
That laid the queen of earth and ocean low;
To Rome herself for enemies she sought,
And Rome herself her own destruction wrought;
Rome, that ne'er knew three lordly heads before,
First fell by fatal partnership of power,
What blind ambition bids your force combine?
What means this frantic league in which you join?
Mistaken men! who hope to share the spoil,
And hold the world within one common toil!
While Earth the seas shall in her bosom bear,
While Earth herself shall hang in ambient air,
While Phoebus shall his constant task renew;
While through the zodiac night shall day pursue;
No faith, no trust, no friendship, shall be known
Among the jealous partners of a throne;
But he who reigns, shall strive to reign alone.
Nor seek for foreign tales to make this good,
Were not our walls first built in brother's blood?
Nor did the feud for wide dominion rise,
Nor was the world their impious fury's prize;
Divided power contention still affords,
And for a village strove the petty lords.

The fierce triumvirate, combin'd in peace,
Preserv'd the bond but for a little space,
Still with an awkward disagreeing grace.
'T was not a league by inclination made,
But bare agreement, such as friends persuade.
Desire of war in either chief was seen,
Though interposing Crassus stood between.
Such in the midst the parting isthmus lies,
While swelling seas on either side arise;
The solid boundaries of earth restrain
The fierce Ionian and Ægean main;

But, if the mound gives way, straight roaring | But, the first vigour of his root now gone,
loud

in at the breach the rushing torrents crowd;
Raging they meet, the dashing waves run high,
And work their foamy waters to the sky.
So when unhappy Crassus, sadly slain,
Dy'd with his blood Assyrian Carre's plain;
Sudden the seeming friends in arms engage,
The Parthian sword let loose the Latian rage.
Ye fierce Arsacidæ! ye foes of Rome,
Now triumph, you have more than overcome:
The vanquish'd felt your victory from far,
And from that field receiv'd their civil war.
The sword is now the umpire to decide,
And part what friendship knew not to divide.
"I was hard, an empire of so vast a size
Could not for two ambitious minds suffice;
The peopled earth, and wide-extended main,
Could furnish room for only one to reign.
When dying Julia first forsook the light,
And Hymen's tapers sunk in endless night,
The tender ties of kindred-love were torn,
Forgotten all, and bury'd in her urn.
Oh! if her death had haply been delay'd,
How might the daughter and the wife persuade!
Like the fam'd Sabine dames she had been seen
To stay the meeting war, and stand between:
On either band had woo'd them to accord,
Sooth'd her fierce father, and her furious lord,
To join in peace, and sheath the ruthless sword.
But this the fatal sisters doom deny'd;

The friends were sever'd, when the matron dy'd.
The rival leaders mortal war proclaim,
Rage fires their souls with jealousy of fame,
And emulation fans the rising flame.

Thee, Pompey, thy past deeds by turns infest,
And jealous glory burns within thy breast;
Thy fam'd piratic laurel seems to fade,
Beneath successful Cæsar's rising shade;

He stands dependent on his weight alone;
All bare his naked branches are display'd,
And with his leafless trunk he forms a shade:
Yet, though the winds his ruin daily threat,
As every blast would heave him from his seat;
Though thousand fairer trees the field supplies,
That rich in youthful verdure round him rise;
Fix'd in his ancient state he yields to none,
And wears the honours of the grove alone.
But Cæsar's greatness, and his strength, was more
Than past renown and antiquated power;
'T was not the fame of what he once had been,
Or tales in old records and annals seen;
But 't was a valour, restless, unconfin'd,
Which no success could sate, nor limits bind;
'Twas shame, a soldier's shame untaught to yield,
That blush'd for nothing but an ill-fought field;
Fierce in his hopes he was, nor knew to stay,
Where vengeance or ambition led the way;
Still prodigal of war whene'er withstood,
Nor spar'd to stain the guilty sword with blood;
Urging advantage, he improv'd all odds,
And made the most of fortune and the gods;
Pleas'd to o'erturn whate'er withheld his prize,
And saw the ruin with rejoicing eyes.

Such, while Earth trembles, and Heaven thunders

loud,

Darts the swift lightning from the rending cloud;
Fierce through the day it breaks, and in its flight
The dreadful blast confounds the gazer's sight;
Resistless in its course delights to rove,
And cleaves the temples of its master, Jove:
Alike where'er it passes or returns,
With equal rage the fell destroyer burns;
Then with a whirl full in its strength retires,
And recollects the force of all its scatter'd fires.
Motives like these the leading chiefs inspir'd;
But other thoughts the meaner vulgar fir'd.

His Gallic wreaths thou view'st with anxious eyes Those fatal seeds luxurious vices sow,

Above thy naval crowns triumphant rise.
Thee, Cæsar, thy long labours past incite,
Thy use of war, and custom of the fight;
While bold ambition prompts thee in the race,
And bids thy courage scorn a second place.
Superior power, fierce faction's dearest care,
One could not brook, and one disdain'd to share.
Justly to name the better cause were hard,
While greatest names for either side declar'd:
Victorious Cæsar by the gods was crown'd,
The vanquish'd party was by Cato own'd.
Nor came the rivals equal to the field;
One to increasing years began to yield,
Old age came creeping in the peaceful gown,
And civil functions weigh'd the soldier down;
Disus'd to arms, he turn'd him to the laws,
And pleas'd himself with popular applause;
With gifts and liberal bounty sought for fame,
And lov'd to hear the vulgar shout his name;
In his own theatre rejoic'd to sit,
Amidst the noisy praises of the pit.
Careless of future ills that might betide,
No aid he sought to prop his failing side,
But on his former fortune much rely'd.
Still seem'd he to possess, and fill his place;
But stood the shadow of what once he was.
So, in the field with Ceres' bounty spread,
Uprears some ancient oak his reverend head;
Chaplets and sacred gifts his boughs adorn,
And spoils of war by mighty heroes worn.

Which ever lay a mighty people low.

To Rome the vanquish'd Earth her tribute paid,
And deadly treasures to her view display'd:
Then Truth and simple Manners left the place,
While Riot rear'd her lewd dishonest face;
Virtue to full prosperity gave way,
And fled from rapine, and the lust of prey.
On every side proud palaces arise,
And lavish gold each common use supplies.
Their fathers' frugal tables stand abborr'd,
And Asia now and Afric are explor'd

For high-pric'd dainties, and the citron board.
In silken robes the minion men appear, [wear.
Which maids and youthful brides should blush to
That age by honest poverty adorn'd,
Which brought the manly Romans forth, is scorn'd;
Wherever aught pernicious does abound,
For luxury all lands are ransack'd round,
And dear-bought deaths the sinking state confound.
The Curii's and Camilli's little field,
To vast extended territories yield;
And foreign tenants reap the harvest now,
Where once the great dictator held the plough.
Rome, ever fond of war, was tir'd with ease;
E'en liberty had lost the power to please:
Hence rage and wrath their ready minds invade,
And want could every wickedness persuade:
Hence impious power was first esteem'd a good,
Worth being sought with arms, and bought with
blood: