An icy damp the vanquisht heavens know, And vanquisht waters now no longer flow. Thus all but Cæsar yield; on his huge lance The hero leaning, did secure advance. Alcmena's son did less securely rush, From the proud height of rising Caucasus; Or Jove himself, when down the steep he prest Those sons of earth, that durst his heaven molest. While raging Cæsar scales th' aspiring height, Big with the news, fame takes before her flight; And from Mount Palatine approaching ills, To frighted Rome, thus dreadfully she tells: A numerous fleet is riding o'er the main, The melted Alps are hid with Cæsar's train. That reeking from a German conquest come, And with a like destruction threaten Rome. Now arms, blood, death, and dismal scenes of war, Are to their eyes presented by their fear; With dreadful thoughts of coming war possest, A wilder tumult raigns in every breast. This flys by land, and that the sea prefers, And thinks his native soil less safe appears, The souldier trusts the fortune of the wars. Prest by their fate, thus as they fear they run. 'Midst these disorders, through th' abandon'd town: A moving sight, wild tumults here and there, Follow the blind impulses of their fear. Vanquisht by rumour all, prepar'd for flight, Their much lamented habitations quit: Trembling, this takes his children in his arms, And that protects his guardian gods from harm. Scar'd from their homes, unwillingly they go, And in their wishes stab the absent foe. Some bear their wives, amidst ten thousand fears, In sad imbrace; and some their aged sires: The tender youth, unus'd to burdens, bear Only that with 'em for which most they fear: Some less discreet, strive to bear all away, And only for the foe prepare the prey. So in a storm when no sea-arts avail To guide the ship with any certain sail; Some bind the shatter'd mast, with thoughts secure, Others are swimming t'ward the peaceful shore; While with full sails kind fortune these implore. But why do we of such small fears complain, With both the consuls greater Pompey ran, That Asia aw'd, in dire Hydaspes grown The only rock, its pyrates split upon; Whose third triumph o're earth made Jove afraid, Proud with success he'd next his Heaven invade: To whom the ocean yielding honours gave, And rougher Bosphorus humbly still'd his wave. Yet he, of empires and of men the shame, Quitting the honour of a ruler's name, Meanly at once abandon'd Rome and fame. Now this to Heaven it self does fears impart, And the mild train of quiet gods depart; Frighted with wars they quit the impious world, And leave mankind in wild confusion hurl'd. Fair Peace, as leader of the goodly train, Beating her snowy arms, did first complain; A wreath of olives bound her drooping head,