Classic Poem

Now in the Boat defenceless Pompey sate,
Surrounded and abandon'd to his Fate.
Nor long they hold him, in their Power, aboard,
Ere ev'ry Villain drew his ruthless Sword:
The Chief perceiv'd their Purpose soon, and spread
His Roman Gown, with Patience o'er his Head:
And when the curs'd Achillas pierc'd his Breast,
His rising Indignation close repress'd.
No Sighs, no Groans, his Dignity profan'd,
No Tears his still unsully'd Glory stain'd:
Unmov'd and firm he fix'd him on his Seat,
And dy'd, as when he liv'd and conquer'd, great.
...
See Fortune! where thy Pompey lyes! And, oh!
In Pity, one, last, little Boon bestow.
He asks no Heaps of Frankincense to rise,
No Eastern Odours to perfume the Skies;
No Roman Necks his Patriot Coarse to bear,
No rev'rend Train of Statues to appear;
No Pageant Shows his Glories to record,
And tell the Triumphs of his conqu'ring Sword;
No Instruments in plaintive Notes to sound,
No Legions sad to march in solemn Round;
A Bier, no better than the Vulgar need,
A little Wood the kindling Flame to feed,
With some poor Hand to tend the homely Fire,
Is all, these wretched Relicks now require.
...
But soon behold! the bolder Youth returns,
While, half consum'd, the smould'ring Carcass burns;
Ere yet the cleansing Fire had melted down
The fleshy Muscles, from the firmer Bone.
He quench'd the Relicks in the briny Wave,
And hid 'em, hasty, in a narrow Grave:
Then with a Stone the sacred Dust he binds,
To guard it from the Breath of scatt'ring Winds:
And lest some heedless Mariner shou'd come,
And violate the Warrior's humble Tomb;
Thus with a Line the Monument he keeps,
Beneath this Stone the once great Pompey sleeps .
Oh Fortune! can thy Malice swell so high?
Canst thou with Caesar 's ev'ry Wish comply?
Must he, thy Pompey once, thus meanly lye?
But oh! forbear, mistaken Man, forbear!
Nor dare to fix the mighty Pompey there:
Where there are Seas, or Air, or Earth, or Skies,
Where'er Rome 's Empire stretches, Pompey lies.
...
Nor in the dying Embers of its Pile
Slept the great Soul upon the Banks of Nile ,
Nor longer, by the Earthly Parts restrain'd,
Amidst its wretched Reliques was detain'd;
But active, and impatient of Delay,
Shot from the mould'ring Heap, and upwards urg'd its way.
Far in those Azure Regions of the Air
Which border on the rowling starry Sphere,
Beyond our Orb, and nearer to that height,
Where Cinthia drives around her Silver Light;
Their happy Seats the Demy-Gods possess,
Refin'd by Virtue, and prepar'd for Bliss;
Of Life unblam'd, a pure and pious Race,
Worthy that lower Heav'n and Stars to grace,
Divine, and equal to the glorious Place.
There Pompey 's Soul, adorn'd with heav'nly Light,
Soon shone among the rest, and as the rest was bright.
New to the blest Aboad, with Wonder fill'd,
The Stars and moving Planets he beheld;
Then looking down on the Sun's feeble Ray,
Survey'd our dusky, faint, imperfect Day,
And under what a Cloud of Night we lay.
But when he saw, how on the Shoar forlorn
His headless Trunk was cast for publick Scorn;
When he beheld, how envious Fortune, still,
Took Pains to use a senseless Carcass ill,
He smil'd at the vain Malice of his Foe,
And pity'd impotent Mankind below.
Then lightly passing o'er Æmathia 's Plain,
His flying Navy scatter'd on the Main,
And cruel Caesar 's Tents; he fix'd at last
His Residence in Brutus ' sacred Breast:
There brooding o'er his Country's Wrongs he sate,
The State's Avenger, and the Tyrant's Fate;
There mournful Rome might still her Pompey find,
There, and in Cato 's free unconquer'd Mind.