Behind, the troops advance.
T'escape, or fcarce a glorious death to win.
No room with flaughter'd foes to ftrew the plain,
And bravely fall amidst a pile of flain.
A captive to the place he now appears,
Doubtful if death fhould move his hope, or fears. 710
In this diftrefs a fudden thought inspir'd
His hardy breaft, by great examples fir'd;
Bold Scæva's action he to mind recalls,
And glory won near fam'd Dyrrachium's walls ;
Where, whilft his men a doubtful fight maintain, 715
And Pompey ftrove the batter'd works to gain,
Amidit 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.