_Plac._ Put off the assault but only for this day: No loss can come by such a small delay. _Char._ We are not sure to-morrow will be ours: Wars have, like love, their favourable hours. Let us use all; for if we lose one day, That white one, in the crowd, may slip away. _Max._ Fate's dark recesses we can never find; But fortune, at some hours, to all is kind: The lucky have whole days, which still they chuse; The unlucky have but hours, and those they lose. _Plac._ I have consulted one, who reads heaven's doom, And sees, as present, things which are to come. 'Tis that Nigrinus, made by your command A tribune in the new Pannonian band. Him have I seen (on Ister's banks he stood, Where last we wintered), bind the headlong flood In sudden ice; and, where most swift it flows, In crystal nets the wond'ring fishes close. Then, with a moment's thaw, the streams enlarge, And from the mesh the twinkling guests discharge. In a deep vale, or near some ruined wall, He would the ghosts of slaughtered soldiers call; Who slow to wounded bodies did repair, And, loth to enter, shivered in the air; These his dread wand did to short life compel, And forced the fates of battles to foretel. _Max._ 'Tis wonderous strange! But, good Placidius, say, What prophecies Nigrinus of this day? _Plac._ In a lone tent, all hung with black, I saw, Where in a square he did a circle draw; Four angles, made by that circumference, Bore holy words inscribed, of mystic sense. When first a hollow wind began to blow, The sky grew black, and bellied down more low; Around the fields did nimble lightning play, Which offered us by fits, and snatched the day. 'Midst this was heard the shrill and tender cry Of well-pleased ghosts, which in the storm did fly; Danced to and fro, and skimmed along the ground, Till to the magic circle they were bound. They coursing it, while we were fenced within, We saw this dreadful scene of fate begin. _Char._ Speak without fear; what did the vision shew? _Plac._ A curtain, drawn, presented to our view A town besieged; and on the neighbouring plain Lay heaps of visionary soldiers slain. A rising mist obscured the gloomy head Of one, who, in imperial robes, lay dead. Near this, in fetters, stood a virgin crowned, Whom many Cupids strove in vain to wound: A voice,--_To-morrow_, still _To-morrow_ rung; Another,--_lo, lo Pæan_ sung. _Char._ Visions and oracles still doubtful are, And ne'er expounded till the event of war. The gods' foreknowledge on our swords will wait: If we fight well, they must foreshow good fate. _To them a Centurion._ _Cent._ A rising dust, which troubles all the air, And this way travels, shews some army near. _Char._ I hear the sound of trumpets from afar. [_Exit_ ALBINUS. _Max._ It seems the voice of triumph, not of war. _To them_ ALBINUS _again_.