Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 062.djvu/244

238 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, 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.

'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.