The broils that from Metellus date,The secret springs, the dark intrigues,The freaks of Fortune, and the greatConfederate in disastrous leagues,And arms with uncleansed slaughter red,A work of danger and distrust,You treat, as one on fire should treadScarce hid by treacherous ashen crust.Let Tragedy's stern muse be muteAwhile; and when your order'd pageHas told Rome's tale, that buskin'd footAgain shall mount the Attic stage,Pollio, the pale defendant's shield,In deep debate the senate's stay,The hero of Dalmatic fieldBy Triumph crown'd with deathless bay.E'en now with trumpet's threatening blareYou thrill our ears; the clarion brays;The lightnings of the armour scareThe steed, and daunt the rider's gaze.Methinks I hear of leaders proudWith no uncomely dust distain'd,And all the world by conquest bow'd,And only Cato's soul unchain'd.Yes, Juno and the powers on highThat left their Afric to its doom,Have led the victors' progenyAs victims to Jugurtha's tomb.What field, by Latian blood-drops fed,Proclaims not the unnatural deedsIt buries, and the earthquake dreadWhose distant thunder shook the Medes?What gulf, what river has not seenThose sights of sorrow? nay, what seaHas Daunian carnage yet left green?What coast from Roman blood is free?But pause, gay Muse, nor leave your playAnother Cean dirge to sing;With me to Venus' bower away,And there attune a lighter string.