Still would'st thou sigh, unsatisfied and poor.
Desire makes needy men. Wisely content,

Fabricius spurn'd the off'rings of a king;

Consuls have toil'd beside the weary plough,

And narrow walls immortal heroes held.

More rich to me such poverty; more dear
My lowly roof, than palaces like thine.

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Thee, lux'ry palls with oft untasted food:

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Freely to me the earth a banquet gives.

What though thy fleeces steal the Tyrian die,

And all thy broider'd vests are richly stain'd

With regal purple: flowers to me are bright,

And the gay meadows mock the pride of art.
Let the resplendent couch, and gilded room,
Invite thy rest: the fragrant herbage courts
My careless limbs to more profound repose;
And while thy halls with early clamor ring;

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The warbling songs of birds, and murm'ring brooks

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Awake my morning hours. Life needs not wealth:
Nature to all around dispenses joy...

If they were known, would not the world retire
To taste such pleasure,? on th' embattled plain
No trumpet then would bray; no hissing dart
Empierce the air; no ship contend with storms,
Nor ponderous engine strike the trembling walls.

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Still doth that hateful avarice increase
In fierce Rufinus; he fresh plunder seeks
By violence, or shameless fraud; and still
Conceals, with hollow courtesies and smiles,
His ill intent but if his purpose fail,

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His hatred rests; e'en the unhappy land
That nursed his foe, he to destruction dooms,
And strives to sweep its memory from the earth.
Nor swift the stroke of death; tortures precede :
Darkness, and bonds, and stripes delay the sword.
His mercy wounds more keenly than the steel;
And life is spared to misery: death yields
Too little for revenge. Secure in guilt,
Himself is criminal and judge. He owns
No virtue, vigilant in crimes; no shores

Are safe from his pursuit; not Sirius fierce,

Nor Winter, howling o'er Riphean rocks,

Retards his eagerness: Meanwhile his heart

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Consumes with anguish, lest the slaughtering sword 315

Should fail, or royal clemency awake.

Nor innocence, nor trembling age, he spares:

The son is slain before the father's face;

The aged sire condemn'd to banishment.

What tongue can tell, what weeping eye deplore
The fulness of their woe! Compared to his,

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Claud.

H

What were the deeds of those atrocious men

Whose murd'rous acts fame shudders to relate;

Sinis, who bound his foes to bending trees,

Sciron, or Phalaris, or Scylla fell!

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O gentle steeds of Diomed! O fanes
Of merciful Busiris!—If compared
To dread Rufinus, Spartacus appears
A lenient robber, cruel Cinna, just.
Wild terrors seize the victims of his hate,
Inly they groan, nor dare attempt revenge.

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But the high soul of Stilicho disdains All abject fear; calm in the midst of strife,

He lifts his sword, and dares the monster's ire:

No magic car he needs, nor the swift wings

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Of Pegasus. Peace on his presence waits.

A tow'r in storms, a shield against despair,
In him the sad find refuge, and his arm

Protects and conquers: Ruin checks her hand,

And dangers fly before him. So the course

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Of swoll'n and angry torrents, some huge rock
Opposes, when the waters rage, and hurl,

With deaf'ning roar, uprooted trees and stones,
Along their furious waves.-O thou whose might
Sustain❜d a falling world, what praise may best
Adorn thy name? to us the Gods have made
Thy presence welcome as the gentle star,
Whose friendly ray the lonely seaman cheers,

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When his toss'd bark the pilot's guiding skill

No more obeys. Perseus, as fame reports,

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With conquering arm the ocean-monster fought,

And dyed the waters with its blood; but he

On soaring wings was safe, and doubly arm'd

With Gorgon shield: thou neither pinions strong,

Nor Medusean locks didst need in fight.

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Him love inspired: the Roman, welfare thee.

Henceforth Antiquity no more shall boast

Of wise or glorious acts; thy deeds surpass

Alcides' toil; in one dark wood alone

Nemæa's lion raged, and to one grove

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