The broils that from Metellus date,The secret springs, the dark intrigues,The freaks of Fortune, and the greatConfederate in disastrous leagues,And arms with uncleansed slaughter red,A work of danger and distrust,You treat, as one on fire should treadScarce hid by treacherous ashen crust.Let Tragedy's stern muse be muteAwhile; and when your order'd pageHas told Rome's tale, that buskin'd footAgain shall mount the Attic stage,Pollio, the pale defendant's shield,In deep debate the senate's stay,The hero of Dalmatic fieldBy Triumph crown'd with deathless bay.E'en now with trumpet's threatening blareYou thrill our ears; the clarion brays;The lightnings of the armour scareThe steed, and daunt the rider's gaze.