Classic Poem

" The Rivalry between Caesar and Pompey"

Thee Pompey thy past deeds by turns infest,
And jealous Glory burns within thy breast,
Thy fam'd pyratick lawrel seems to fade,
Beneath successful Caesar's rising shade;
His Gallick wreaths thou view'st with anxious eyes
Above thy naval crowns triumphant rise.
Thee Caesar thy long labours past incite,
Thy use of war, and custom of the fight;
While bold Ambition prompts thee in the race,
And bids thy courage scorn a second place.
Superior pow'r, fierce Faction's dearest care,
One could not brook, and one disdain'd to share.
Justly to name the better cause were hard,
While greatest names for either side declar'd:
Victorious Caesar by the Gods was crown'd,
The vanquish'd party was by Cato own'd.
Nor came the Rivals equal to the field;
One to increasing years began to yield,
Old Age came creeping in the peaceful gown,
And civil functions weigh'd the Soldier down;
Disus'd to Arms, he turn'd him to the Laws,
And pleas'd himself with popular applause;
With Gifts, and lib'ral bounty sought for fame,
And lov'd to hear the vulgar shout his name;
In his own Theatre rejoyc'd to sit,
Amidst the noisie praises of the pit.
Careless of future ills that might betide,
No aid he sought to prop his failing side,
But on his former fortune much rely'd.
Still seem'd he to possess, and fill his place;
But stood the shadow of what once he was.
So in the field with Ceres' bounty spread,
Uprears some antient Oak his rev'rend head;
Chaplets and sacred gifts his boughs adorn,
And spoils of war by mighty Heroes worn.
But the first vigour of his root now gone,
He stands dependant on his weight alone;
All bare his naked branches are display'd,
And with his leafless trunk he forms a shade:
Yet tho' the winds his ruin daily threat,
As ev'ry blast wou'd heave him from his seat;
Tho' thousand fairer trees the field supplies,
That rich in youthful verdure round him rise;
Fix'd in his antient state he yields to none,
And wears the honours of the grove alone.
But Caesar's greatness, and his strength, was more
Than past renown, and antiquated pow'r;
'Twas not the fame of what he once had been,
Of tales in old Records and Annals seen;
But 'twas a valour, restless, unconfin'd,
Which no success could sate, nor limits bind;
'Twas shame, a Soldier's shame, untaught to yield,
That blush'd for nothing but an ill-fought field:
Fierce in his hopes he was, nor knew to stay,
Where vengeance or Ambition led the way;
Still prodigal of war whene'er withstood,
Nor spar'd to stain the guilty sword with blood:
Urging advantage he improv'd all odds,
And made the most of Fortune and the Gods;
Pleas'd to o'erturn whate'er with-held his prize,
And saw the ruin with rejoicing eyes.