Youths, who in arts beneath one tutor grew,
Rome rent in twain, and kindred hofts they view.
Tears wet their impious arms, a fond relief,
And kiffes, broke by fobs, the words of grief;
Tho' yet no blood was fpilt, each anxious mind
With horror thinks on what his rage defign'd.
Ah! generous youths, why thus, with fruitless pain,
Beat ye those breasts? why gush those eyes in vain ?
Why blame ye heaven, and charge your guilt on fate?'
Why dread the tyrant, whom yourselves make great?
Bids he the trumpet found? the trumpet flight-
Bids he the standard move? refuse the fight-
Your generals, left by you, will love again,
A fon and father, when they're private men.
Kind concord, heavenly-born! whofe blissful reign
Holds this vaft globe in one furrounding chain,
Whose laws the jarring elements controul,
And knit each atom close from pole to pole;
Soul of the world! and love's eternal spring!
This lucky hour, thy aid, fair goddess, bring!
This lucky hour, ere aggravated crimes
Heap guilt on guilt, and doubly ftain the times.
No veil henceforth for fin, for pardon none;
They know their duty, now their friends are known.
Vain wish! from blood short must the respite be;
New crimes, by love inhanc'd, this night fhall fee:
Such is the will of fate, and fuch the hard decree.

"Twas peace. From either camp, now void of fear, The foldiers mingling cheerful feafts prepare:

On the green fod the friendly bowls were crown'd,
And hafty banquets pil'd upon the ground:
Around the fire they talk; one shows his fcars,
One tells what chance first led him to the wars;
Their ftories o'er the tedious night prevail,
And the mute circle liftens to the tale.

They own theyfought, but fwear they ne'er could hate,
Deny their guilt, and lay the blame on fate;
Their love revives, to make them guiltier grow,
A fhort-liv'd bleffing, but to heighten woe.
When to Petreius first the news was told,
The jealous general thought his legions fold.
Swift, with the guards, his head-ftrong fury drew,
From out his camp he drives the hostile crew;
Cuts clafping friends afunder with his fword,
And ftains with blood each hofpitable board.
Then thus his wrath breaks out. "Oh! loft to fame!
"Oh! falfe to Pompey, and the Roman name!
"Can ye not conquer, ye degenerate bands?
"Oh! die at leaft; 'tis all that Rome demands.
"What? will ye own, while ye can wield the fword,
"A rebel standard, and ufurping lord?
"Shall he be fued to take you into place

"Amongst his flaves, and grant you equal grace? "What? fhall my life be begg'd? inglorious thought! "And life abhorr'd, on fuch conditions bought!

"The

"The toils we bear, my friends, are not for life, "Too mean a prize in fuch a dreadful ftrife; "But peace would lead to fervitude and shame, A fair amusement, and a specious name.

< Never had man explor'd the iron ore, "Mark'd out the trench, or rais'd the lofty tower, "Ne'er had the fteed in harnefs fought the plain, "Or fleets encounter'd on th' unstable main; "Were life, were breath, with fame to be compar'd, "Or peace to glorious liberty preferr❜d.

By guilty oaths the hoftile army bound, "Holds faft its impious faith, and stands its ground; "Are you perfidious, who espouse the laws, "And traytors only in a righteous cause ? "Oh fhame! in vain thro' nations far and wide, "Thou call'ft the crowding monarchs to thy fide, "Fallen Pompey! while thy legions here betray "Thy cheap bought life, and treat thy fame away." He ended fierce. The foldier's rage returns, His blood flies upward, and his bosom burns. So, hap'ly tam'd, the tyger bears his bands, Lefs grimly growls, and licks his keeper's hands; But if by chance he taftes forbidden gore,

He yells amain, and makes his dungeon roar:
He glares, he foams, he aims a desperate bound,
And his pale master flies the dangerous ground.
Now deeds are done, which man might charge aright
On ftubborn fate, or undifcerning night,
E 4

Had

Had not their guilt the lawlefs foldiers known,
And made the whole malignity their own.

The beds, the plenteous tables float with gore,
And breasts are stabb'd, that were embrac'd before:
Pity awhile their hands from flaughter kept,
Inward they groan'd, and, as they drew, they wept;
But every blow their wavering rage affures,
In murder hardens, and to blood inures.

Crowds charge on crowds, nor friends their friends
But fires by fons, and fons by fathers die. [defcry,
Black, monftrous rage! each, with victorious cries,
Drags his flain friend before the general's eyes,
Exults in guilt, that throws the only shame
On Pompey's cause, and blots the Roman name.

ΤΟ

TO A LADY BEFORE MARRIAGE.

BY THE SAME.

Ο

H! form'd by nature, and refin'd by art,

With charms to win, and fenfe to fix the heart! By thousands fought, Clotilda, canft thou free Thy crowd of captives, and defcend to me? Content in fhades obfcure to waste thy life, A hidden beauty, and a country wife. O! liften while thy fummers are my theme, Ah! footh thy partner in his waking dream! In some small hamlet on the lonely plain,

train:

Where Thames thro' meadows rolls his mazy
Or where high Windfor, thick with greens array'd,
Waves his old oaks, and spreads his ample shade,
Fancy has figur'd out our calm retreat;
Already round the vifionary feat.

Our limes begin to fhoot, our flowers to spring,
The brooks to murmur, and the birds to fing.
Where doft thou lie, thou thinly-peopled green?
Thou nameless lawn, and village yet unfeen?
Where fons, contented with their native ground,
Ne'er travell'd further than ten furlongs round;
And the tann'd peafant, and his ruddy bride,
Were born together, and together died.

Where