35
And still thy looks so unconcerned didst wear,
Beholders seemed more indisposed than thee;
For they were sick in effigy.
Like some well-fashioned arch thy patience stood,
And purchased firmness from its greater load.
Those shapes of torture, which to view in paint
Would make another faint,
Thou couldst endure in true reality,
And feel what some could hardly bear to see.
Those Indians who their kings by tortures chose,
Subjecting all the royal issue to that test,
Could ne'er thy sway refuse,
If he deserves to reign that suffers best.
Had those fierce savages thy patience viewed,
Thou'dst claimed their choice alone;
They with a crown had paid thy fortitude,
And turned thy death-bed to a throne.
36
Whose zeal to truth made them its sacrifice:
Those nobler Scævolas, whose holy rage
Did their whole selves in cruel flames engage,
Who did amidst their force unmoved appear,
As if those fires but lambent were,
Or they had found their empyreum there;
Might these repeat again their days beneath,
They'd seen their fates out-acted by a natural death,
And each of them to thee resign his wreath.
In spite of weakness and harsh destiny,
To relish torment, and enjoy a misery:
So to caress a doom,
As makes its sufferings delights become:
So to triumph o'er sense and thy disease,
As amongst pains to revel in soft ease:
