Behind, the troops advance. No way is seen
T'escape, or scarce a glorious death to win.
No room with flaughter'd foes to strew the plain,
And bravely fall amidit a pile of flain.
A captive to the place he now appears,
Doubtful if death should move his hope, or fears. 710
In this distress a sudden thought inspir'd
His hardy breast, by great examples fir'd;
Bold Scæva's action he to mind recalls,
And glory won near fam'd Dyrrachium's walls;
Where, whilst his men a doubtful fight maintain, 715
And Pompey strove the batter'd works to gain,
Amidst a field of foes, that hemm'd him round,
Alone the brave Centurion kept his ground.
*. Here the original poem breaks off abruptly, having been left unfinished by the author.