Classic Poem

The war, that rose from civil hate
In that Metellian consulate,
Our vices, measures, and the sport of chance,
The famous triple league, the Roman shield and lance,
With gore unexpiated, smear'd,
A work whose fate is to be fear'd
You treat, and on those treacherous ashes tread,
Beneath whose seeming surface glow the embers red.
O spare a little to repeat
Your tragic verse severely sweet;
Soon, when the public weal you shall replace,
Your grand Athenian works again the stage shall grace.
Thou who defend'st the poor with zeal,
To whom the conscript house appeal,
For whom the fertile laurels, that you wore
In that Dalmatian triumph, deathless honour bore.
E'en now you make my tingling ear
The din of martial trumpets hear,
Now clarions bray, and men in armour bright
The routed horse and horsemen with their lightning fright.
Now mighty captains I perceive,
In clouds of glorious dust atchieve
Eternal fame, and all the world their own,
Save the ferocious fire of Cato's soul alone.
Juno and every pow'r propense,
Like her, for Africa's defence,
When unreveng'd they left their darling coast,
Offer'd the victor's grandsons to Jugurtha's ghost.
Say where the blood of Romans slain,
Has not made fertile every plain
Whose monuments record our impious deeds,
And our great downfal heard by the remotest Medes?
What gulphs, what rivers in their flow
Do not our dire dissensions know?
What sea is not discolour'd by the gore
Of Romans basely slain, what climate, or what shore?
But leaving mirth, O do not urge
My Pollio's muse, the Cean dirge —
In some cool grotto sacred to the fair,
With me and sweet Dione touch a lighter air.