ELEGY IV. To an OFFICER. Written at Rome, 1756. FROM Latian fields, the mansions of Renown, Where fix'd the Warrior God his fated seat; Where infant Heroes learnt the martial frown, And little hearts for genuine glory beat; What for my friend, my soldier, shall I frame? What nobly glowing verse that breathes of arms, To point his radiant path to deathless fame, By great examples, and terrific charms? Quirinus first, with bold, collected bands, The sinewy sons of strength, for empire strove; Beneath his thunder bow'd th' astonish'd lands, And temples rose to Mars, and to Feretrian Jove. War taught contempt of death, contempt of pain, And hence the Fabii, hence the Decii come: War urg'd the slaughter, tho' she wept the slain, Stern War, the rugged nurse of virtuous Rome. But not from antique fables will I draw, To fire thy feeling soul, a dubious aid, Tho' now, ev'n now, they strike with rev'rent awe, By Poets or Historians sacred made. Nor yet to thee the babling Muse shall tell What mighty Kings with all their legions wrought, What cities sunk, and storied nations fell When Caesar, Titus, or when Trajan fought, From private worth, and Fortune's private ways Whilst o'er yon hill th' exalted Trophy shows To what vast heights of incorrupted praise The great, the self-ennobled Marius rose. From steep Arpinum's rock-invested shade, From hardy Virtue's emulative school His daring flight th' expanding Genius made, And by obeying nobly learnt to rule. Abash'd, confounded, stern Iberia groan'd, And Afric trembled to her utmost coasts; When the proud land its destin'd Conqueror own'd In the new Consul, and his veteran hosts. Yet Chiefs are madmen, and Ambition weak, And mean the joys the laurel'd harvests yield, If Virtue fail. Let Fame, let Envy speak Of Capfa's walls, and Sextia's watry field. But sink for ever, in oblivion cast, Dishonest triumphs, and ignoble spoils. Minturnae's Marsh severely paid at last The guilty glories gain'd in civil broils. Nor yet his vain contempt the Muse shall praise For scenes of polish'd life, and letter'd worth; The steel-rib'd Warrior wants not Envy's ways To darken theirs, or call his merits forth, Witness yon Cimbrian Trophies! — Marius, there Thy ample pinion found a space to fly; As the plum'd eagle soaring sails in air, In upper air, and scorns a middle sky. Thence too thy country claim'd thee for her own, And bade the Sculptor's toil thy acts adorn, To teach in characters of living stone Eternal lessons to the youth unborn. For wisely Rome her warlike Sons rewards With the sweet labours of her Artists' hands; He wakes her Graces, who her empire guards, And both Minervas join in willing bands. O why, Britannia, why untrophied pass The patriot deeds thy godlike Sons display, Why breathes on high no monumental brass, Why swells no Arc to grace Culloden's Day? Wait we till faithless France submissive bow Beneath that Hero's delegated spear, Whose light'ning smote Rebellion's haughty brow, And scatter'd her vile rout with horror in the rear? O Land of Freedom, Land of Arts, assume That graceful dignity thy merits claim; Exalt thy Heroes like imperial Rome, And build their virtues on their love of fame. So shall the modest worth, which checks my friend, Forget its blush when rous'd by Glory's charms; From breast to breast the generous warmth descend, And still new trophies rise, at once, to Arts, and Arms.