There will thy dwindled hosts, increased
By kings and tetrarchs of the East,
And sons of swarthy Nile;
From Pontius and from Colchis far,
The gather'd ranks of motley war,
Let fortune seem to smile
A moment, that with sterner frown,
She, when she strikes, may strike thee down.
A flattering fool shall be thy guide,[1]
And hope shall whisper to thy pride
Things that may not befall.
Thy forward-springing wit shall boast
The numbers of thy counted host—
That pride may have a fall.
Hoar Pindus, from his rocky barriers,
Looks on thy ranks of gay-plumed warriors,
And sees an ominous sight:
The leafy tent for victory graced,
Foresnatching fate with impious haste
From gods that rule the fight.
Thus fools have perish'd; and thus thou,
Spurr'd to sheer death, art blinded now.
Feeble thy clouds of clattering horse
To dash his steady ordered force;
From twanging bow and sling
Dintless the missile hail is pour'd,
Where the Tenth Legion wields the sword,
And Caesar leads the wing.[2]
'Tis done. And sire to son shall tell
What on Emathiau plains befell,
A God-ordain'd disaster;
How justice dealt the even blow,
And Rome that laid the nations low
Herself hath found a master.
Oh, had thou known thyself to rule,
That train'd the world in thy stern school,
Fate might have gentlier dealt; but now
Thyself thy proper Fury, thou
Hast struck the avenging blow.
On sandy Afric's treacherous shore,
Fresh from red Pharsaly's streaming gore,
Lies Rome with Pompey low.
J. S. B.
Inverury, 1847.
