A stranger Queen display her haughty charms; Our veteran’s to her dastard courts confin’d, Our standards wave, to love-devices join’d; Shall these dishonours vile be calmly borne, Till all the universe regards with scorn; No: when a Roman proves unworthy breath, Abridge his shame, or give him instant death. The people warm, the senate join applause, Thy crime due vengeance even to Syria draws; Augustus’ rage, the just intent pursues, T’ avenge a sister, and a rival lose. Ah! yet regard the impending danger near, Hear glory’s call, that glory once so dear; Return to crown Octavia’s constant love, No fierce reproaches thou from her shalt prove; Though beauty’s transient charms no more you see, Those charms, lamented husband, fled with thee; The kindness of the wanderer I deplore, Will to this form each banish’d grace restore: Could I whom only I desire, retain, Even Cleopatra’s eyes I’d wish to gain. Thou sigh’st, I triumph----thy relenting soul For glory form’d, and virtue’s blest controul, Wilt for Marcellus take a father’s part, For him sole solace of his mother’s heart. ----What do I say--when you, perhaps, even now In Cleopatra’s arms my ruin vow; Would to the gods! ah! would the Fates decree That barbarous fair the lot ordain’d for me; O may she fall betray’d, and as she dies, View joy exulting in her lover’s eyes; On her who poison’d all my bliss of life, A cruel death avenge an injur’d wife. So perish all who boast such dangerous arms, Whom Nature ornaments with guilty charms; To banish faith, conceal a vicious heart, Or elevate caprice and fraud to art, The despicable beauties, whose controul, Destroys the seeds of honour in the soul; Who glorying o’er illustrious slaves to reign, Contrive each day to swell the inglorious train; The blaze of beauty wrap in viewless gloom, And dress with flow’rs their passage to the tomb. Forgive this transport; yes, the keenest dart Should pierce, had I the pow’r, that barb’rous heart. For thee, dear Anthony, live ever blest, No hostile vows from me thy peace molest. May Rome behold thee, is my warmest pray’r, Augustus’ rank and the world’s empire share: While I descending to the realms beneath, Not even the pang of one remorse bequeath. NEW-YORK June 26, 1796. [[Sources: The French original _may_ be Nicolas Renouard, “Epitre (or Lettre) d’Octavie a Marc-Antoine”.]] * * * * * FRAGMENT. Pow’r, wealth, and beauty are a short-liv’d trust; ’Tis virtue only blossoms in the dust. NEW-YORK: _+Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street+, where every Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and Dispatch.--+Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 2s. per month) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCHELL, Bookseller, No. 9, Maiden-Lane._