is not one word
Doth pinch; I like such stuff, 'tis safer far
Than thy Philippics, or Pharsalia's war.
What sadder end than his, whom Athens saw
At once her patriot, oracle, and law?
Unhappy then is he, and curs'd in stars
Whom his poor father, blind with soot and scars,
Sends from the anvil's harmless chine, to wear
The factious gown, and tire his client's ear
And purse with endless noise. Trophies of war,
Old rusty armour, with an honour'd scar,
And wheels of captiv'd chariots, with a piece
Of some torn British galley, and to these
The ensign too, and last of all the train
The pensive pris'ner loaden with his chain,
Are thought true Roman honours; these the Greek
And rude barbarians equally do seek.
Thus air, and empty fame, are held a prize
Beyond fair virtue; for all virtue dies
Without reward; and yet by this fierce lust
Of fame, and titles to outlive our dust,
And monuments--though all these things must die
And perish like ourselves--whole kingdoms lie
Ruin'd and spoil'd: put Hannibal i' th' scale,
What weight affords the mighty general?
This is the man, whom Afric's spacious land
Bounded by th' Indian Sea, and Nile's hot sand
Could not contain--Ye gods! that give to men
Such boundless appetites, why state you them
So short a time? either the one deny,
Or give their acts and them eternity.
All Aethiopia, to the utmost bound
Of Titan's course,--than which no land is found
Less distant from the sun--with him that ploughs
That fertile soil where fam'd[52] Iberus flows,
Are not enough to conquer; pass'd now o'er
The Pyrrhene hills, the Alps with all its store
Of ice, and rocks clad in eternal snow,
--As if that Nature meant to give the blow--
Denies him passage; straight on ev'ry side
He wounds the hill, and by strong hand divides
The monstrous pile; nought can ambition stay.
The world and Nature yield to give him way.
And now pass'd o'er the Alps, that mighty bar
'Twixt France and Rome, fear of the future war
Strikes Italy; success and hope doth fire
His lofty spirits with a fresh desire.
All is undone as yet--saith he--unless
Our Paenish forces we advance, and press
Upon Rome's self; break down her gates and wall,
And plant our colours in Suburra's vale.
O the rare sight! if this great soldier we