Yet Fortune failed not, as they sought the field, In various presage of the ills to come; All heaven opposed their march: portentous fire In columns filled the plain, and torches blazed: And thirsty whirlwinds mixed with meteor bolts Smote on them as they strode, whose sulphurous flames Perplexed the vision. Crests were struck from helms; The melted sword-blade flowed upon the hilt: The spear ran liquid, and the hurtful steel Smoked with a sulphur that had come from heaven. Nay, more, the standards, hid by swarms of bees Innumerable, weighed the bearer down, Scarce lifted from the earth; bedewed with tears; No more of Rome the standards, (7) or her state. And from the altar fled the frantic bull To fields afar; nor was a victim found To grace the sacrifice of coming doom.

But thou, Caesar, to what gods of ill Didst thou appeal? What furies didst thou call, What powers of madness and what Stygian Kings Whelmed in th' abyss of hell? Didst favour gain By sacrifice in this thine impious war? Strange sights were seen; or caused by hands divine Or due to fearful fancy. Haemus' top Plunged headlong in the valley, Pindus met With high Olympus, while at Ossa's feet Red ran Baebeis, (8) and Pharsalia's field Gave warlike voices forth in depth of night. Now darkness came upon their wondering gaze, Now daylight pale and wan, their helmets wreathed In pallid mist; the spirits of their sires Hovered in air, and shades of kindred dead Passed flitting through the gloom. Yet to the host Conscious of guilty prayers which sought to shed The blood of sires and brothers, earth and air Distraught, and horrors seething in their hearts Gave happy omen of the end to come.

Was't strange that peoples whom their latest day Of happy life awaited (if their minds Foreknew the doom) should tremble with affright? Romans who dwelt by far Araxes' stream, And Tyrian Gades, (9) in whatever clime, 'Neath every sky, struck by mysterious dread Were plunged in sorrow — yet rebuked the tear, For yet they knew not of the fatal day. Thus on Euganean hills (10) where sulphurous fumes Disclose the rise of Aponus (11) from earth, And where Timavus broadens in the meads, An augur spake: "This day the fight is fought, The arms of Caesar and Pompeius meet To end the impious conflict." Or he saw The bolts of Jupiter, predicting ill; Or else the sky discordant o'er the space Of heaven, from pole to pole; or else perchance The sun was sad and misty in the height And told the battle by his wasted beams. By Nature's fiat that Thessalian day Passed not as others; if the gifted sense Of reading portents had been given to all, All men had known Pharsalia. Gods of heaven! How do ye mark the great ones of the earth! The world gives tokens of their weal or woe; The sky records their fates: in distant climes To future races shall their tale be told, Or by the fame alone of mighty deeds Had in remembrance, or by this my care Borne through the centuries: and men shall read In hope and fear the story of the war And breathless pray, as though it were to come, For that long since accomplished; and for thee Thus far, Pompeius, shall that prayer be given.

Reflected from their arms, th' opposing sun Filled all the slope with radiance as they marched In ordered ranks to that ill-fated fight, And stood arranged for battle. On the left Thou, Lentulus, had'st charge; two legions there, The fourth, and bravest of them all, the first: While on the right, Domitius, ever stanch, Though fates be adverse, stood: in middle line The hardy soldiers from Cilician lands, In Scipio's care; their chief in Libyan days, To-day their comrade. By Enipeus' pools And by the rivulets, the mountain troops Of Cappadocia, and loose of rein Thy squadrons, Pontus: on the firmer ground Galatia's tetrarchs and the greater kings; And all the purple-robed, the slaves of Rome. Numidian hordes were there from Afric shores, There Creta's host and Ituraeans found Full space to wing their arrows; there the tribes From brave Iberia clashed their shields, and there Gaul stood arrayed against her ancient foe. Let all the nations be the victor's prize, None grace in future a triumphal car; This fight demands the slaughter of a world.

Caesar that day to send his troops for spoil Had left his tent, when on the further hill Behold! his foe descending to the plain. The moment asked for by a thousand prayers Is come, which puts his fortune on the risk Of imminent war, to win or lose it all. For burning with desire of kingly power His eager soul ill brooked the small delay This civil war compelled: each instant lost Robbed from his due! But when at length he knew The last great conflict come, the fight supreme, Whose prize the leadership of all the world: And felt the ruin nodding to its fall: Swiftest to strike, yet for a little space His rage for battle failed; the spirit bold To pledge itself the issue, wavered now: For Magnus' fortunes gave no room for hope, Though Caesar's none for fear. Deep in his soul Such doubt was hidden, as with mien and speech That augured victory, thus the chief began: "Ye conquerors of a world, my hope in all, Prayed for so oft, the dawn of fight is come. No more entreat the gods: with sword in hand Seize on our fates; and Caesar in your deeds This day is great or little. This the day For which I hold since Rubicon was passed Your promise given: for this we flew to arms: (12) For this deferred the triumphs we had won, And which the foe refused: this gives you back Your homes and kindred, and the peaceful farm, Your prize for years of service in the field. And by the fates' command this day shall prove Whose quarrel juster: for defeat is guilt To him on whom it falls. If in my cause With fire and sword ye did your country wrong, Strike for acquittal! Should another judge This war, not Caesar, none were blameless found. Not for my sake this battle, but for you, To give you, soldiers, liberty and law 'Gainst all the world. Wishful myself for life Apart from public cares, and for the gown That robes the private citizen, I refuse To yield from office till the law allows Your right in all things. On my shoulders rest All blame; all power be yours. Nor deep the blood Between yourselves and conquest. Grecian schools Of exercise and wrestling (13) send us here Their chosen darlings to await your swords; And scarcely armed for war, a dissonant crowd Barbaric, that will start to hear our trump, Nay, their own clamour. Not in civil strife Your blows shall fall — the battle of to-day Sweeps from the earth the enemies of Rome. Dash through these cowards and their vaunted kings: One stroke of sword and all the world is yours. Make plain to all men that the crowds who decked Pompeius' hundred pageants scarce were fit For one poor triumph. Shall Armenia care Who leads her masters, or barbarians shed One drop of blood to make Pompeius chief O'er our Italia? Rome, 'tis Rome they hate And all her children; yet they hate the most Those whom they know. My fate is in the hands Of you, mine own true soldiers, proved in all The wars we fought in Gallia. When the sword Of each of you shall strike, I know the hand: The javelin's flight to me betrays the arm That launched it hurtling: and to-day once more I see the faces stern, the threatening eyes, Unfailing proofs of victory to come. E'en now the battle rushes on my sight; Kings trodden down and scattered senators Fill all th' ensanguined plain, and peoples float Unnumbered on the crimson tide of death. Enough of words — I but delay the fates; And you who burn to dash into the fray, Forgive the pause. I tremble with the hopes (14) Thus finding utterance. I ne'er have seen The mighty gods so near; this little field Alone dividing us; their hands are full Of my predestined honours: for 'tis I Who when this war is done shall have the power O'er all that peoples, all that kings enjoy To shower it where I will. But has the pole Been moved, or in its nightly course some star Turned backwards, that such mighty deeds should pass Here on Thessalian earth? To-day we reap Of all our wars the harvest or the doom. Think of the cross that threats us, and the chain, Limbs hacked asunder, Caesar's head displayed Upon the rostra; and that narrow field Piled up with slaughter: for this hostile chief Is savage Sulla's pupil. 'Tis for you, If conquered, that I grieve: my lot apart Is cast long since. This sword, should one of you Turn from the battle ere the foe be fled, Shall rob the life of Caesar. O ye gods, Drawn down from heaven by the throes of Rome, May he be conqueror who shall not draw Against the vanquished an inhuman sword, Nor count it as a crime if men of Rome Preferred another's standard to his own. Pompeius' sword drank deep Italian blood When cabined in yon space the brave man's arm No more found room to strike. But you, I pray, Touch not the foe who turns him from the fight, A fellow citizen, a foe no more. But while the gleaming weapons threaten still, Let no fond memories unnerve the arm, (15) No pious thought of father or of kin; But full in face of brother or of sire, Drive home the blade. Unless the slain be known Your foes account his slaughter as a crime; Spare not our camp, but lay the rampart low And fill the fosse with ruin; not a man But holds his post within the ranks to-day. And yonder tents, deserted by the foe, Shall give us shelter when the rout is done."

Scarce had he paused; they snatch the hasty meal, And seize their armour and with swift acclaim Welcome the chief's predictions of the day, Tread low their camp when rushing to the fight; And take their post: nor word nor order given, In fate they put their trust. Nor, had'st thou placed All Caesars there, all striving for the throne Of Rome their city, had their serried ranks With speedier tread dashed down upon the foe.

But when Pompeius saw the hostile troops Move forth in order and demand the fight, And knew the gods' approval of the day, He stood astonied, while a deadly chill Struck to his heart — omen itself of woe, That such a chief should at the call to arms, Thus dread the issue: but with fear repressed, Borne on his noble steed along the line Of all his forces, thus he spake: "The day Your bravery demands, that final end Of civil war ye asked for, is at hand. Put forth your strength, your all; the sword to-day Does its last work. One crowded hour is charged With nations' destinies. Whoe'er of you Longs for his land and home, his wife and child, Seek them with sword. Here in mid battle-field, The gods place all at stake. Our better right Bids us expect their favour; they shall dip Your brands in Caesar's blood, and thus shall give Another sanction to the laws of Rome, Our cause of battle. If for him were meant An empire o'er the world, had they not put An end to Magnus' life? That I am chief Of all these mingled peoples and of Rome Disproves an angry heaven. See here combined All means of victory. Noble men have sought Unasked the risks of war. Our soldiers boast Ancestral statues. If to us were given A Curius, if Camillus were returned, Or patriot Decius to devote his life, Here would they take their stand. From furthest east All nations gathered, cities as the sand Unnumbered, give their aid: a world complete Serves 'neath our standards. North and south and all Who have their being 'neath the starry vault, Here meet in arms conjoined: And shall we not Crush with our closing wings this paltry foe? Few shall find room to strike; the rest with voice Must be content to aid: for Caesar's ranks Suffice not for us. Think from Rome's high walls The matrons watch you with their hair unbound; Think that the Senate hoar, too old for arms, With snowy locks outspread; and Rome herself, The world's high mistress, fearing now, alas! A despot — all exhort you to the fight. Think that the people that is and that shall be Joins in the prayer — in freedom to be born, In freedom die, their wish. If 'mid these vows Be still found place for mine, with wife and child, So far as Imperator may, I bend Before you suppliant — unless this fight Be won, behold me exile, your disgrace, My kinsman's scorn. From this, 'tis yours to save. Then save! Nor in the latest stage of life, Let Magnus be a slave."

Then burned their souls At these his words, indignant at the thought, And Rome rose up within them, and to die Was welcome.

Thus alike with hearts aflame Moved either host to battle, one in fear And one in hope of empire. These hands shall do Such work as not the rolling centuries Not all mankind though free from sword and war Shall e'er make good. Nations that were to live This fight shall crush, and peoples pre-ordained To make the history of the coming world Shall come not to the birth. The Latin names Shall sound as fables in the ears of men, And ruins loaded with the dust of years Shall hardly mark her cities. Alba's hill, Home of our gods, no human foot shall tread, Save of some Senator at the ancient feast By Numa's orders founded — he compelled Serves his high office. (16) Void and desolate Are Veii, Cora and Laurentum's hold; Yet not the tooth of envious time destroyed These storied monuments — 'twas civil war That rased their citadels. Where now hath fled The teeming life that once Italia knew? Not all the earth can furnish her with men: Untenanted her dwellings and her fields: Slaves till her soil: one city holds us all: Crumbling to ruin, the ancestral roof Finds none on whom to fall; and Rome herself, Void of her citizens, draws within her gates The dregs of all the world. That none might wage A civil war again, thus deeply drank Pharsalia's fight the life-blood of her sons. Dark in the calendar of Rome for aye, The days when Allia and Cannae fell: And shall Pharsalus' morn, darkest of all, Stand on the page unmarked? Alas, the fates! Not plague nor pestilence nor famine's rage, Not cities given to the flames, nor towns Trembling at shock of earthquake shall weigh down Such heroes lost, when Fortune's ruthless hand Lops at one blow the gift of centuries, Leaders and men embattled. How great art thou, Rome, in thy fall! Stretched to the widest bounds War upon war laid nations at thy feet Till flaming Titan nigh to either pole Beheld thine empire; and the furthest east Was almost thine, till day and night and sky For thee revolved, and all the stars could see Throughout their course was Roman. But the fates In one dread day of slaughter and despair Turned back the centuries and spoke thy doom. And now the Indian fears the axe no more Once emblem of thy power, now no more The girded Consul curbs the Getan horde, Or in Sarmatian furrows guides the share: (17) Still Parthia boasts her triumphs unavenged: Foul is the public life; and Freedom, fled To furthest Earth beyond the Tigris' stream, And Rhine's broad river, wandering at her will 'Mid Teuton hordes and Scythian, though by sword Sought, yet returns not. Would that from the day When Romulus, aided by the vulture's flight, Ill-omened, raised within that hateful grove Rome's earliest walls, down to the crimsoned field In dire Thessalia fought, she ne'er had known Italia's peoples! Did the Bruti strike In vain for liberty? Why laws and rights Sanctioned by all the annals designate With consular titles? Happier far the Medes And blest Arabia, and the Eastern lands Held by a kindlier fate in despot rule! That nation serves the worst which serves with shame. No guardian gods watch over us from heaven: Jove (18) is no king; let ages whirl along In blind confusion: from his throne supreme Shall he behold such carnage and restrain His thunderbolts? On Mimas shall he hurl His fires, on Rhodope and Oeta's woods Unmeriting such chastisement, and leave This life to Cassius' hand? On Argos fell At grim Thyestes' feast (19) untimely night By him thus hastened; shall Thessalia's land Receive full daylight, wielding kindred swords In fathers' hands and brothers'? Careless of men Are all the gods. Yet for this day of doom Such vengeance have we reaped as deities May give to mortals; for these wars shall raise Our parted Caesars to the gods; and Rome Shall deck their effigies with thunderbolts, And stars and rays, and in the very fanes Swear by the shades of men.

With swift advance They seize the space that yet delays the fates Till short the span dividing. Then they gaze For one short moment where may fall the spear, What hand may deal their death, what monstrous task Soon shall be theirs; and all in arms they see, In reach of stroke, their brothers and their sires With front opposing; yet to yield their ground It pleased them not. But all the host was dumb With horror; cold upon each loving heart, Awe-struck, the life-blood pressed; and all men held With arms outstretched their javelins for a time, Poised yet unthrown. Now may th' avenging gods Allot thee, Crastinus, (20) not such a death As all men else do suffer! In the tomb May'st thou have feeling and remembrance still! For thine the hand that first flung forth the dart, Which stained with Roman blood Thessalia's earth. Madman! To speed thy lance when Caesar's self Still held his hand! Then from the clarions broke The strident summons, and the trumpets blared Responsive signal. Upward to the vault The sound re-echoes where nor clouds may reach Nor thunder penetrate; and Haemus' slopes (21) Reverberate to Pelion the din; Pindus re-echoes; Oeta's lofty rocks Groan, and Pangaean cliffs, till at their rage Borne back from all the earth they shook for fear.

Unnumbered darts they hurl, with prayers diverse; Some hope to wound: others, in secret, yearn For hands still innocent. Chance rules supreme, And wayward Fortune upon whom she wills Makes fall the guilt. Yet for the hatred bred By civil war suffices spear nor lance, Urged on their flight afar: the hand must grip The sword and drive it to the foeman's heart. But while Pompeius' ranks, shield wedged to shield, Were ranged in dense array, and scarce had space To draw the blade, came rushing at the charge Full on the central column Caesar's host, Mad for the battle. Man nor arms could stay The crash of onset, and the furious sword Clove through the stubborn panoply to the flesh, There only stayed. One army struck — their foes Struck not in answer; Magnus' swords were cold, But Caesar's reeked with slaughter and with guilt. Nor Fortune lingered, but decreed the doom Which swept the ruins of a world away.

Soon as withdrawn from all the spacious plain, Pompeius' horse was ranged upon the flanks; Passed through the outer files, the lighter armed Of all the nations joined the central strife, With divers weapons armed, but all for blood Of Rome athirst: then blazing torches flew, Arrows and stones. and ponderous balls of lead Molten by speed of passage through the air. There Ituraean archers and the Mede Winged forth their countless shafts till all the sky Grew dark with missiles hurled; and from the night Brooding above, Death struck his victims down, Guiltless such blow, while all the crime was heaped Upon the Roman spear. In line oblique Behind the standards Caesar in reserve Had placed some companies of foot, in fear The foremost ranks might waver. These at his word, No trumpet sounding, break upon the ranks Of Magnus' horsemen where they rode at large Flanking the battle. They, unshamed of fear And careless of the fray, when first a steed Pierced through by javelin spurned with sounding hoof The temples of his rider, turned the rein, And through their comrades spurring from the field In panic, proved that not with warring Rome Barbarians may grapple. Then arose Immeasurable carnage: here the sword, There stood the victim, and the victor's arm Wearied of slaughter. Oh, that to thy plains, Pharsalia, might suffice the crimson stream From hosts barbarian, nor other blood Pollute thy fountains' sources! these alone Shall clothe thy pastures with the bones of men! Or if thy fields must run with Roman blood Then spare the nations who in times to come Must be her peoples!

Now the terror spread Through all the army, and the favouring fates Decreed for Caesar's triumph: and the war Ceased in the wider plain, though still ablaze Where stood the chosen of Pompeius' force, Upholding yet the fight. Not here allies Begged from some distant king to wield the sword: Here were the Roman sons, the sires of Rome, Here the last frenzy and the last despair: Here, Caesar, was thy crime: and here shall stay My Muse repelled: no poesy of mine Shall tell the horrors of the final strife, Nor for the coming ages paint the deeds Which civil war permits. Be all obscured In deepest darkness! Spare the useless tear And vain lament, and let the deeds that fell In that last fight of Rome remain unsung.

But Caesar adding fury to the breasts Already flaming with the rage of war, That each might bear his portion of the guilt Which stained the host, unflinching through the ranks Passed at his will. He looked upon the brands, These reddened only at the point, and those Streaming with blood and gory, to the hilt: He marks the hand which trembling grasped the sword, Or held it idle, and the cheek that grew Pale at the blow, and that which at his words Glowed with the joy of battle: midst the dead He treads the plain and on each gaping wound Presses his hand to keep the life within. Thus Caesar passed: and where his footsteps fell As when Bellona shakes her crimson lash, Or Mavors scourges on the Thracian mares (22) When shunning the dread face on Pallas' shield, He drives his chariot, there arose a night Dark with huge slaughter and with crime, and groans As of a voice immense, and sound of alms As fell the wearer, and of sword on sword Crashed into fragments. With a ready hand Caesar supplies the weapon and bids strike Full at the visage; and with lance reversed Urges the flagging ranks and stirs the fight. Where flows the nation's blood, where beats the heart, Knowing, he bids them spare the common herd, But seek the senators — thus Rome he strikes, Thus the last hold of Freedom. In the fray, Then fell the nobles with their mighty names Of ancient prowess; there Metellus' sons, Corvini, Lepidi, Torquati too, Not once nor twice the conquerors of kings, First of all men, Pompeius' name except, Lay dead upon the field.

But, Brutus, where, Where was thy sword? (23) "Veiled by a common helm Unknown thou wanderest. Thy country's pride, Hope of the Senate, thou (for none besides); Thou latest scion of that race of pride, Whose fearless deeds the centuries record, Tempt not the battle, nor provoke the doom! Awaits thee on Philippi's fated field Thy Thessaly. Not here shalt thou prevail 'Gainst Caesar's life. Not yet hath he surpassed The height of power and deserved a death Noble at Brutus' hands — then let him live, Thy fated victim!

There upon the field Lay all the honour of Rome; no common stream Mixed with the purple tide. And yet of all Who noble fell, one only now I sing, Thee, brave Domitius. (24) Whene'er the day Was adverse to the fortunes of thy chief Thine was the arm which vainly stayed the fight. Vanquished so oft by Caesar, now 'twas thine Yet free to perish. By a thousand wounds Came welcome death, nor had thy conqueror power Again to pardon. Caesar stood and saw The dark blood welling forth and death at hand, And thus in words of scorn: "And dost thou lie, Domitius, there? And did Pompeius name Thee his successor, thee? Why leavest thou then His standards helpless?" But the parting life Still faintly throbbed within Domitius' breast, Thus finding utterance: "Yet thou hast not won Thy hateful prize, for doubtful are the fates; Nor thou the master, Caesar; free as yet, With great Pompeius for my leader still, Warring no more, I seek the silent shades, Yet with this hope in death, that thou subdued To Magnus and to me in grievous guise May'st pay atonement." So he spake: no more; Then closed his eyes in death.

'Twere shame to shed, When thus a world was perishing, the tear Meet for each fate, or sing the wound that reft Each life away. Through forehead and through throat The pitiless weapon clove its deadly path, Or forced the entrails forth: one fell to earth Prone at the stroke; one stood though shorn of limb; Glanced from this breast unharmed the quivering spear; That it transfixed to earth. Here from the veins Spouted the life-blood, till the foeman's arms Were crimsoned. One his brother slew, nor dared To spoil the corse, till severed from the neck He flung the head afar. Another dashed Full in his father's teeth the fatal sword, By murderous frenzy striving to disprove His kinship with the slain. Yet for each death We find no separate dirge, nor weep for men When peoples fell. Thus, Rome, thy doom was wrought At dread Pharsalus. Not, as in other fields, By soldiers slain, or captains; here were swept Whole nations to the death; Assyria here, Achaia, Pontus; and the blood of Rome Gushing in torrents forth, forbade the rest To stagnate on the plain. Nor life was reft, Nor safety only then; but reeled the world And all her manifold peoples at the blow In that day's battle dealt; nor only then Felt, but in all the times that were to come. Those swords gave servitude to every age That shall be slavish; by our sires was shaped For us our destiny, the despot yoke. Yet have we trembled not, nor feared to bare Our throats to slaughter, nor to face the foe: We bear the penalty for others' shame. Such be our doom; yet, Fortune, sharing not In that last battle, 'twas our right to strike One blow for freedom ere we served our lord.

Now saw Pompeius, grieving, that the gods Had left his side, and knew the fates of Rome Passed from his governance; yet all the blood That filled the field scarce brought him to confess His fortunes fled. A little hill he sought Whence to descry the battle raging still Upon the plain, which when he nearer stood The warring ranks concealed. Thence did the chief Gaze on unnumbered swords that flashed in air And sought his ruin; and the tide of blood In which his host had perished. Yet not as those Who, prostrate fallen, would drag nations down To share their evil fate, Pompeius did. Still were the gods thought worthy of his prayers To give him solace, in that after him Might live his Romans. "Spare, ye gods," he said, "Nor lay whole peoples low; my fall attained, The world and Rome may stand. And if ye need More bloodshed, here on me, my wife, and sons Wreak out your vengeance — pledges to the fates Such have we given. Too little for the war Is our destruction? Doth the carnage fail, The world escaping? Magnus' fortunes lost, Why doom all else beside him?" Thus he cried, And passed amid his standards, and recalled His vanquished host that rushed on fate declared. Not for his sake such carnage should be wrought. So thought Pompeius; nor the foeman's sword He feared, nor death; but lest upon his fall To quit their chief his soldiers might refuse, And o'er his prostrate corpse a world in arms Might find its ruin: or perchance he wished From Caesar's eager eyes to veil his death. In vain, unhappy! for the fates decree He shall behold, shorn from the bleeding trunk, Again thy visage. And thou, too, his spouse, Beloved Cornelia, didst cause his flight; Thy longed-for features; yet he shall not die When thou art present. (25)

Then upon his steed, Though fearing not the weapons at his back, Pompeius fled, his mighty soul prepared To meet his destinies. No groan nor tear, But solemn grief as for the fates of Rome, Was in his visage, and with mien unchanged He saw Pharsalia's woes, above the frowns Or smiles of Fortune; in triumphant days And in his fall, her master. The burden laid Of thine impending fate, thou partest free To muse upon the happy days of yore. Hope now has fled; but in the fleeting past How wast thou great! Seek thou the wars no more, And call the gods to witness that for thee Henceforth dies no man. In the fights to come On Afric's mournful shore, by Pharos' stream And fateful Munda; in the final scene Of dire Pharsalia's battle, not thy name Doth stir the war and urge the foeman's arm, But those great rivals biding with us yet, Caesar and Liberty; and not for thee But for itself the dying Senate fought, When thou had'st fled the combat.

Find'st thou not Some solace thus in parting from the fight Nor seeing all the horrors of its close? Look back upon the dead that load the plain, The rivers turbid with a crimson stream; Then pity thou thy victor. How shall he Enter the city, who on such a field Finds happiness? Trust thou in Fortune yet, Her favourite ever; and whate'er, alone In lands unknown, an exile, be thy lot, Whate'er thy sufferings 'neath the Pharian king, 'Twere worse to conquer. Then forbid the tear, Cease, sounds of woe, and lamentation cease, And let the world adore thee in defeat, As in thy triumphs. With unfaltering gaze, Look on the suppliant kings, thy subjects still; Search out the realms and cities which they hold, Thy gift, Pompeius; and a fitting place Choose for thy death.

First witness of thy fall, And of thy noble bearing in defeat, Larissa. Weeping, yet with gifts of price Fit for a victor, from her teeming gates Poured forth her citizens, their homes and fanes Flung open; wishing it had been their lot With thee to share disaster. Of thy name Still much survives, unto thy former self Alone inferior, still could'st thou to arms All nations call and challenge fate again. But thus he spake: "To cities nor to men Avails the conquered aught; then pledge your faith To him who has the victory." Caesar trod Pharsalia's slaughter, while his daughter's spouse Thus gave him kingdoms; but Pompeius fled 'Mid sobs and groans and blaming of the gods For this their fierce commandment; and he fled Full of the fruits and knowledge of the love The peoples bore him, which he knew not his In times of happiness.

When Italian blood Flowed deep enough upon the fatal field, Caesar bade halt, and gave their lives to those Whose death had been no gain. But that their camp Might not recall the foe, nor calm of night Banish their fears, he bids his cohorts dash, While Fortune glowed and terror filled the plain, Straight on the ramparts of the conquered foe. Light was the task to urge them to the spoil; "Soldiers," he said, "the victory is ours, Full and triumphant: there doth lie the prize Which you have won, not Caesar; at your feet Behold the booty of the hostile camp. Snatched from Hesperian nations ruddy gold, And all the riches of the Orient world, Are piled within the tents. The wealth of kings And of Pompeius here awaits its lords. Haste, soldiers, and outstrip the flying foe; E'en now the vanquished of Pharsalia's field Anticipate your spoils." No more he said, But drave them, blind with frenzy for the gold, To spurn the bodies of their fallen sires, And trample chiefs in dashing on their prey. What rampart had restrained them as they rushed To seize the prize for wickedness and war And learn the price of guilt? And though they found In ponderous masses heaped for need of war The trophies of a world, yet were their minds Unsatisfied, that asked for all. Whate'er Iberian mines or Tagus bring to day, Or Arimaspians from golden sands May gather, had they seized; still had they thought Their guilt too cheaply sold. When pledged to them Was the Tarpeian rock, for victory won, And all the spoils of Rome, by Caesar's word, Shall camps suffice them?

Then plebeian limbs On senators' turf took rest, on kingly couch The meanest soldier; and the murderer lay Where yesternight his brother or his sire. In raving dreams within their waking brains Yet raged the battle, and the guilty hand Still wrought its deeds of blood, and restless sought The absent sword-hilt. Thou had'st said that groans Issued from all the plain, that parted souls Had breathed a life into the guilty soil, That earthly darkness teemed with gibbering ghosts And Stygian terrors. Victory foully won Thus claimed its punishment. The slumbering sense Already heard the hiss of vengeful flames As from the depths of Acheron. One saw Deep in the trances of the night his sire And one his brother slain. But all the dead In long array were visioned to the eyes Of Caesar dreaming. Not in other guise Orestes saw the Furies ere he fled To purge his sin within the Scythian bounds; Nor in more fierce convulsions raged the soul Of Pentheus raving; nor Agave's (26) mind When she had known her son. Before his gaze Flashed all the javelins which Pharsalia saw, Or that avenging day when drew their blades The Roman senators; and on his couch, Infernal monsters from the depths of hell Scourged him in slumber. Thus his guilty mind Brought retribution. Ere his rival died The terrors that enfold the Stygian stream And black Avernus, and the ghostly slain Broke on his sleep.

Yet when the golden sun Unveiled the butchery of Pharsalia's field (27) He shrank not from its horror, nor withdrew His feasting gaze. There rolled the streams in flood With crimson carnage; there a seething heap Rose shrouding all the plain, now in decay Slow settling down; there numbered he the host Of Magnus slain; and for the morn's repast That spot he chose whence he might watch the dead, And feast his eyes upon Emathia's field Concealed by corpses; of the bloody sight Insatiate, he forbad the funeral pyre, And cast Emathia in the face of heaven. Nor by the Punic victor was he taught, Who at the close of Cannae's fatal fight Laid in the earth the Roman consul dead, To find fit burial for his fallen foes; For these were all his countrymen, nor yet His ire by blood appeased. Yet ask we not For separate pyres or sepulchres apart Wherein to lay the ashes of the fallen: Burn in one holocaust the nations slain; Or should it please thy soul to torture more Thy kinsman, pile on high from Oeta's slopes And Pindus' top the woods: thus shall he see While fugitive on the deep the blaze that marks Thessalia. Yet by this idle rage Nought dost thou profit; for these corporal frames Bearing innate from birth the certain germs Of dissolution, whether by decay Or fire consumed, shall fall into the lap Of all-embracing nature. Thus if now Thou should'st deny the pyre, still in that flame When all shall crumble, (28) earth and rolling seas And stars commingled with the bones of men, These too shall perish. Where thy soul shall go These shall companion thee; no higher flight In airy realms is thine, nor smoother couch Beneath the Stygian darkness; for the dead No fortune favours, and our Mother Earth All that is born from her receives again, And he whose bones no tomb or urn protects Yet sleeps beneath the canopy of heaven. And thou, proud conqueror, who would'st deny The rites of burial to thousands slain, Why flee thy field of triumph? Why desert This reeking plain? Drink, Caesar, of the streams, Drink if thou can'st, and should it be thy wish Breathe the Thessalian air; but from thy grasp The earth is ravished, and th' unburied host, Routing their victor, hold Pharsalia's field.

Then to the ghastly harvest of the war Came all the beasts of earth whose facile sense Of odour tracks the bodies of the slain. Sped from his northern home the Thracian wolf; Bears left their dens and lions from afar Scenting the carnage; dogs obscene and foul Their homes deserted: all the air was full Of gathering fowl, who in their flight had long Pursued the armies. Cranes (29) who yearly change The frosts of Thracia for the banks of Nile, This year delayed their voyage. As ne'er before The air grew dark with vultures' hovering wings, Innumerable, for every grove and wood Sent forth its denizens; on every tree Dripped from their crimsoned beaks a gory dew. Oft on the conquerors and their impious arms Or purple rain of blood, or mouldering flesh Fell from the lofty heaven; or limbs of men From weary talons dropped. Yet even so The peoples passed not all into the maw Of ravening beast or fowl; the inmost flesh Scarce did they touch, nor limbs — thus lay the dead Scorned by the spoiler; and the Roman host By sun and length of days, and rain from heaven, At length was mingled with Emathia's plain.

Ill-starred Thessalia! By what hateful crime Didst thou offend that thus on thee alone Was laid such carnage? By what length of years Shalt thou be cleansed from the curse of war? When shall the harvest of thy fields arise Free from their purple stain? And when the share Cease to upturn the slaughtered hosts of Rome? First shall the battle onset sound again, Again shall flow upon thy fated earth A crimson torrent. Thus may be o'erthrown Our sires' memorials; those erected last, Or those which pierced by ancient roots have spread Through broken stones their sacred urns abroad. Thus shall the ploughman of Haemonia gaze On more abundant ashes, and the rake Pass o'er more frequent bones. Wert, Thracia, thou. Our only battlefield, no sailor's hand Upon thy shore should make his cable fast; No spade should turn, the husbandman should flee Thy fields, the resting-place of Roman dead; No lowing kine should graze, nor shepherd dare To leave his fleecy charge to browse at will On fields made fertile by our mouldering dust; All bare and unexplored thy soil should lie, As past man's footsteps, parched by cruel suns, Or palled by snows unmelting! But, ye gods, Give us to hate the lands which bear the guilt; Let not all earth be cursed, though not all Be blameless found.

'Twas thus that Munda's fight And blood of Mutina, and Leucas' cape, And sad Pachynus, (30) made Philippi pure.

ENDNOTES:

(1) "It is, methinks, a morning full of fate! It riseth slowly, as her sullen car Had all the weight of sleep and death hung at it!" ... And her sick head is bound about with clouds As if she threatened night ere noon of day." — Ben Jonson, "Catiline", i., 1. (2) See Book VI., 577. (3) As to the sun finding fuel in the clouds, see Book I., line 471. (4) Pompeius triumphed first in 81 B.C. for his victories in Sicily and Africa, at the age of twenty-four. Sulla at first objected, but finally yielded and said, "Let him triumph then in God's name." The triumph for the defeat of Sertorius was not till 71 B.C., in which year Pompeius was elected Consul along with Crassus. (Compare Book IX., 709.) (5) These two lines are taken from Ben Jonson's "Catiline", act v., scene 6. (6) The volcanic district of Campania, scene of the fabled battle of the giants. (See Book IV., 666.) (7) Henceforth to be the standards of the Emperor. (8) A lake at the foot of Mount Ossa. Pindus, Ossa, Olympus, and, above all, Haemus (the Balkans) were at a long distance from Pharsalia. Comp. Book VI., 677. (9) Gades (Cadiz) is stated to have been founded by the Phoenicians about 1000 B.C. (10) This alludes to the story told by Plutarch ("Caesar", 47) that, at Patavium, Caius Cornelius, a man reputed for skill in divination, and a friend of Livy the historian, was sitting to watch the birds that day. "And first of all (as Livius says) he discovered the time of the battle, and he said to those present that the affair was now deciding and the men were going into action. Looking again, and observing the signs, he sprang up with enthusiasm and called out, 'You conquer, Caesar.'" (Long's translation.) (11) The Fontes Aponi were warm springs near Padua. An altar, inscribed to Apollo Aponus, was found at Ribchester, and is now at St. John's College, Cambridge. (Wright, "Celt, Roman, and Saxon", p. 320.) (12) See Book I., 411, and following lines. (13) For the contempt here expressed for the Greek gymnastic schools, see also Tacitus, "Annals", 14, 21. It is well known that Nero instituted games called Neronia which were borrowed from the Greeks; and that many of the Roman citizens despised them as foreign and profligate. Merivale, chapter liii., cites this passage. (14) Thus paraphrased by Dean Stanley: "I tremble not with terror, but with hope, As the great day reveals its coming scope; Never in earlier days, our hearts to cheer, Have such bright gifts of Heaven been brought so near, Nor ever has been kept the aspiring soul By space so narrow from so grand a goal." Inaugural address at St. Andrews. 1873, on the "Study of Greatness". (15) That such were Caesar's orders is also attested by Appian. (16) See Book V., 463. (17) That is, marked out the new colony with a plough-share. This was regarded as a religious ceremony, and therefore performed by the Consul with his toga worn in ancient fashion. (18) "Hath Jove no thunder?" — Ben Jonson, "Catiline", iii., 2. (19) Compare Book I., line 600. (20) This act of Crastinus is recorded by Plutarch ("Pompeius", 71), and by Caesar, "Civil War", Book III., 91. Caesar called him by name and said: "Well, Crastinus, shall we win today?" "We shall win with glory, Caesar," he replied in a loud voice, "and to-day you will praise me, living or dead." — Durny, "History of Rome", vol. iii., 312. He was placed in a special tomb after the battle. (21) See on line 203. (22) That is, lashes on his team terrified by the Gorgon shield in the ranks of the enemy. (23) Plutarch states that Brutus after the battle escaped and made his way to Larissa, whence he wrote to Caesar. Caesar, pleased that he was alive, asked him to come to him; and it was on Brutus' opinion that Caesar determined to hurry to Egypt as the most probable refuge of Pompeius. Caesar entrusted Brutus with the command of Cisalpine Gaul when he was in Africa. (24) "He perished, after a career of furious partisanship, disgraced with cruelty and treachery, on the field of Pharsalia" (Merivale, "Hist. Romans under the Empire", chapter lii.). Unless this man had been an ancestor of Nero it is impossible to suppose that Lucan would have thus singled him out. But he appears to have been the only leader who fell. (Compare Book II, lines 534-590, for his conduct at Corfinium.) (25) This appears to be the only possible meaning of the text. But in truth, although Cornelia was not by her husband's side at his murder, she was present at the scene. (26) See Book VI., 420. (27) The whole of this passage is foreign to Caesar's character, and unfounded in fact. Pompeians perished on the field, and were taken prisoners. When Caesar passed over the field he is recorded to have said in pity, "They would have it so; after all my exploits I should have been condemned to death had I not thrown myself upon the protection of my soldiers." — Plutarch, "Caesar"; Durny, "History of Rome", vol. iii., p. 311. (28) Alluding to the general conflagration in which (by the Stoic doctrines) all the universe would one day perish. (29) Wrongly supposed by Lucan to feed on carrion. (30) Alluding to the naval war waged by Sextus Pompeius after Caesar's death. He took possession of Sicily, and had command of the seas, but was ultimately defeated by the fleet of Octavius under Agrippa in B.C. 36. Pachynus was the S.E. promontory of the island, but is used in the sense of Sicily, for this battle took place on the north coast.



BOOK VIII

DEATH OF POMPEIUS.

Now through Alcides'(1) pass and Tempe's groves Pompeius, aiming for Haemonian glens And forests lone, urged on his wearied steed Scarce heeding now the spur; by devious tracks Seeking to veil the footsteps of his flight: The rustle of the foliage, and the noise Of following comrades filled his anxious soul With terrors, as he fancied at his side Some ambushed enemy. Fallen from the height Of former fortunes, still the chieftain knew His life not worthless; mindful of the fates: And 'gainst the price he set on Caesar's head, He measures Caesar's value of his own.

Yet, as he rode, the features of the chief Made known his ruin. Many as they sought The camp Pharsalian, ere yet was spread News of the battle, met the chief, amazed, And wondered at the whirl of human things: Nor held disaster sure, though Magnus' self Told of his ruin. Every witness seen Brought peril on his flight: 'twere better far Safe in a name obscure, through all the world To wander; but his ancient fame forbad.

Too long had great Pompeius from the height Of human greatness, envied of mankind, Looked on all others; nor for him henceforth Could life be lowly. The honours of his youth Too early thrust upon him, and the deeds Which brought him triumph in the Sullan days, His conquering navy and the Pontic war, Made heavier now the burden of defeat, And crushed his pondering soul. So length of days Drags down the haughty spirit, and life prolonged When power has perished. Fortune's latest hour, Be the last hour of life! Nor let the wretch Live on disgraced by memories of fame! But for the boon of death, who'd dare the sea Of prosperous chance?

Upon the ocean marge By red Peneus blushing from the fray, Borne in a sloop, to lightest wind and wave Scarce equal, he, whose countless oars yet smote Upon Coreyra's isle and Leucas point, Lord of Cilicia and Liburnian lands, Crept trembling to the sea. He bids them steer For the sequestered shores of Lesbos isle; For there wert thou, sharer of all his griefs, Cornelia! Sadder far thy life apart Than wert thou present in Thessalia's fields. Racked is thy heart with presages of ill; Pharsalia fills thy dreams; and when the shades Give place to coming dawn, with hasty step Thou tread'st some cliff sea-beaten, and with eyes Gazing afar art first to mark the sail Of each approaching bark: yet dar'st not ask Aught of thy husband's fate.

Behold the boat Whose bending canvas bears her to the shore: She brings (unknown as yet) thy chiefest dread, Rumour of evil, herald of defeat, Magnus, thy conquered spouse. Fear then no more, But give to grief thy moments. From the ship He leaps to land; she marks the cruel doom Wrought by the gods upon him: pale and wan His weary features, by the hoary locks Shaded; the dust of travel on his garb. Dark on her soul a night of anguish fell; Her trembling limbs no longer bore her frame: Scarce throbbed her heart, and prone on earth she lay Deceived in hope of death. The boat made fast, Pompeius treading the lone waste of sand Drew near; whom when Cornelia's maidens saw, They stayed their weeping, yet with sighs subdued, Reproached the fates; and tried in vain to raise Their mistress' form, till Magnus to his breast Drew her with cherishing arms; and at the touch Of soothing hands the life-blood to her veins Returned once more, and she could bear to look Upon his features. He forbad despair, Chiding her grief. "Not at the earliest blow By Fortune dealt, inheritress of fame Bequeathed by noble fathers, should thy strength Thus fail and yield: renown shall yet be thine, To last through ages; not of laws decreed Nor conquests won; a gentler path to thee As to thy sex, is given; thy husband's woe. Let thine affection struggle with the fates, And in his misery love thy lord the more. I bring thee greater glory, for that gone Is all the pomp of power and all the crowd Of faithful senators and suppliant kings; Now first Pompeius for himself alone Tis thine to love. Curb this unbounded grief, While yet I breathe, unseemly. O'er my tomb Weep out thy full, the final pledge of faith. Thou hast no loss, nor has the war destroyed Aught save my fortune. If for that thy grief That was thy love."

Roused by her husband's words, Yet scarcely could she raise her trembling limbs, Thus speaking through her sobs: "Would I had sought Detested Caesar's couch, ill-omened wife Of spouse unhappy; at my nuptials twice A Fury has been bridesmaid, and the ghosts Of slaughtered Crassi, with avenging shades Brought by my wedlock to the doomed camp The Parthian massacre. Twice my star has cursed The world, and peoples have been hurled to death In one red moment; and the gods through me Have left the better cause. O, hero mine, mightiest husband, wedded to a wife Unworthy! 'Twas through her that Fortune gained The right to strike thee. Wherefore did I wed To bring thee misery? Mine, mine the guilt, Mine be the penalty. And that the wave May bear thee gently onwards, and the kings May keep their faith to thee, and all the earth Be ready to thy rule, me from thy side Cast to the billows. Rather had I died To bring thee victory; thy disasters thus, Thus expiate. And, cruel Julia, thee, Who by this war hast vengeance on our vows, From thine abode I call: atonement find In this thy rival's death, and spare at least Thy Magnus." Then upon his breast she fell, While all the concourse wept — e'en Magnus' self, Who saw Thessalia's field without a tear.

But now upon the shore a numerous band From Mitylene thus approached the chief: "If 'tis our greatest glory to have kept The pledge with us by such a husband placed, Do thou one night within these friendly walls We pray thee, stay; thus honouring the homes Long since devoted, Magnus, to thy cause. This spot in days to come the guest from Rome For thee shall honour. Nowhere shalt thou find A surer refuge in defeat. All else May court the victor's favour; we long since Have earned his chastisement. And though our isle Rides on the deep, girt by the ocean wave, No ships has Caesar: and to us shall come, Be sure, thy captains, to our trusted shore, The war renewing. Take, for all is thine, The treasures of our temples and the gold, Take all our youth by land or on the sea To do thy bidding: Lesbos only asks This from the chief who sought her in his pride, Not in his fall to leave her." Pleased in soul At such a love, and joyed that in the world Some faith still lingered, thus Pompeius said: "Earth has for me no dearer land than this. Did I not trust it with so sweet a pledge And find it faithful? Here was Rome for me, Country and household gods. This shore I sought Home of my wife, this Lesbos, which for her Had merited remorseless Caesar's ire: Nor was afraid to trust you with the means To gain his mercy. But enough — through me Your guilt was caused — I part, throughout the world To prove my fate. Farewell thou happiest land! Famous for ever, whether taught by thee Some other kings and peoples may be pleased To give me shelter; or should'st thou alone Be faithful. And now seek I in what lands Right may be found or wrong. My latest prayer Receive, O deity, if still with me Thou bidest, thus. May it be mine again, Conquered, with hostile Caesar on my tracks To find a Lesbos where to enter in And whence to part, unhindered."

In the boat He placed his spouse: while from the shore arose Such lamentation, and such hands were raised In ire against the gods, that thou had'st deemed All left their kin for exile, and their homes. And though for Magnus grieving in his fall Yet for Cornelia chiefly did they mourn Long since their gentle guest. For her had wept The Lesbian matrons had she left to join A victor husband: for she won their love, By kindly modesty and gracious mien, Ere yet her lord was conquered, while as yet Their fortunes stood.

Now slowly to the deep Sank fiery Titan; but not yet to those He sought (if such there be), was shown his orb, Though veiled from those he quitted. Magnus' mind, Anxious with waking cares, sought through the kings His subjects, and the cities leagued with Rome In faith, and through the pathless tracts that lie Beyond the southern bounds: until the toil Of sorrowing thought upon the past, and dread Of that which might be, made him cast afar His wavering doubts, and from the captain seek Some counsel on the heavens; how by the sky He marked his track upon the deep; what star Guided the path to Syria, and what points Found in the Wain would pilot him aright To shores of Libya. But thus replied The well-skilled watcher of the silent skies: "Not by the constellations moving ever Across the heavens do we guide our barks; For that were perilous; but by that star (2) Which never sinks nor dips below the wave, Girt by the glittering groups men call the Bears. When stands the pole-star clear before the mast, Then to the Bosphorus look we, and the main Which carves the coast of Scythia. But the more Bootes dips, and nearer to the sea Is Cynosura seen, so much the ship Towards Syria tends, till bright Canopus (3) shines, In southern skies content to hold his course; With him upon the left past Pharos borne Straight for the Syrtes shalt thou plough the deep. But whither now dost bid me shape the yards And set the canvas?"

Magnus, doubting still; "This only be thy care: from Thracia steer The vessel onward; shun with all thy skill Italia's distant shore: and for the rest Trust to the winds for guidance. When I sought, Pledged with the Lesbians, my spouse beloved, My course was sure: now, Fortune, where thou wilt Give me a refuge." These his answering words.

The pilot, as they hung from level yards Shifted the sails; and hauling to the stern One sheet, he slacked the other, to the left Steering, where Samian rocks and Chian marred The stillness of the waters; while the sea Sent up in answer to the changing keel A different murmur. Not so deftly turns Curbing his steeds, his wain the Charioteer, While glows his dexter wheel, and with the left He almost touches, yet avoids the goal.

Now Titan veiled the stars and showed the shore; When, following Magnus, came a scattered band Saved from the Thracian storm. From Lesbos' port His son; (4) next, captains who preserved their faith; For at his side, though vanquished in the field, Cast down by fate, in exile, still there stood, Lords of the earth and all her Orient realms, The Kings, his ministers.

To the furthest lands He bids (5) Deiotarus: "O faithful friend, Since in Emathia's battle-field was lost The world, so far as Roman, it remains To test the faith of peoples of the East Who drink of Tigris and Euphrates' stream, Secure as yet from Caesar. Be it thine Far as the rising of the sun to trace The fates that favour Magnus: to the courts Of Median palaces, to Scythian steppes; And to the son of haughty Arsaces, To bear my message, 'Hold ye to the faith, Pledged by your priests and by the Thunderer's name Of Latium sworn? Then fill your quivers full, Draw to its fullest span th' Armenian bow; And, Getan archers, wing the fatal shaft. And you, ye Parthians, if when I sought The Caspian gates, and on th' Alaunian tribes (6) Fierce, ever-warring, pressed, I suffered you In Persian tracts to wander, nor compelled To seek for shelter Babylonian walls; If beyond Cyrus' kingdom (7) and the bounds Of wide Chaldaea, where from Nysa's top Pours down Hydaspes, and the Ganges flood Foams to the ocean, nearer far I stood Than Persia's bounds to Phoebus' rising fires; If by my sufferance, Parthians, you alone Decked not my triumphs, but in equal state Sole of all Eastern princes, face to face Met Magnus in his pride, nor only once Through me were saved; (for after that dread day Who but Pompeius soothed the kindling fires Of Latium's anger?) — by my service paid Come forth to victory: burst the ancient bounds By Macedon's hero set: in Magnus' cause March, Parthians, to Rome's conquest. Rome herself Prays to be conquered.'"

Hard the task imposed; Yet doffed his robe, and swift obeyed, the king Wrapped in a servant's mantle. If a Prince For safety play the boor, then happier, sure, The peasant's lot than lordship of the world.

The king thus parted, past Icaria's rocks Pompeius' vessel skirts the foamy crags Of little Samos: Colophon's tranquil sea And Ephesus lay behind him, and the air Breathed freely on him from the Coan shore. Cuidos he shunned, and, famous for its sun, Rhodos, and steering for the middle deep Escaped the windings of Telmessus' bay; Till rose Pamphylian coasts before the bark, And first the fallen chieftain dared to find In small Phaseils shelter; for therein Scarce was the husbandman, and empty homes Forbad to fear. Next Taurus' heights he saw And Dipsus falling from his lofty sides: So sailed he onward.

Did Pompeius hope, Thus severed by the billows from the foe, To make his safety sure? His little boat Flies unmolested past Cilician shores; But to their exiled lord in chiefest part The senate of Rome was drawn. Celendrae there Received their fleet, where fair Selinus' stream In spacious bay gives refuge from the main; And to the gathered chiefs in mournful words At length Pompeius thus resolved his thoughts: "O faithful comrades mine in war and flight! To me, my country! Though this barren shore Our place of meeting, and no gathered host Surrounds us, yet upon our changed estate I seek your counsel. Rouse ye as of yore With hearts of courage! Magnus on the field Not all is perished, nor do fates forbid But that I rise afresh with living hope Of future victories, and spurn defeat. From Libyan ruins did not Marius rise Again recorded Consul on the page Full of his honours? shall a lighter blow Keep Magnus down, whose thousand chiefs and ships Still plough the billows; by defeat his strength Not whelmed but scattered? And the fame alone Of our great deeds of glory in the past Shall now protect us, and the world unchanged Still love its hero.

"Weigh upon the scales Ye chiefs, which best may help the needs of Rome, In faith and armies; or the Parthian realm Egypt or Libya. For myself, ye chiefs, I veil no secret thoughts, but thus advise. Place no reliance on the Pharian king; His age forbids: nor on the cunning Moor, Who vain of Punic ancestors, and vain Of Carthaginian memories and descent (8) Supposed from Hannibal, and swollen with pride At Varus' supplication, sees in thought Rome lie beneath him. Wherefore, comrades, seek At speed, the Eastern world. Those mighty realms Disjoins from us Euphrates, and the gates Called Caspian; on another sky than ours There day and night revolve; another sea Of different hue is severed from our own. (9) Rule is their wish, nought else: and in their plains Taller the war-horse, stronger twangs the bow; There fails nor youth nor age to wing the shaft Fatal in flight. Their archers first subdued The lance of Macedon and Baetra's (10) walls, Home of the Mede; and haughty Babylon With all her storied towers: nor shall they dread The Roman onset; trusting to the shafts By which the host of fated Crassus fell. Nor trust they only to the javelin blade Untipped with poison: from the rancorous edge The slightest wound deals death.

"Would that my lot Forced me not thus to trust that savage race Of Arsaces! (11) Yet now their emulous fate Contends with Roman destinies: the gods Smile favouring on their nation. Thence I'll pour On Caesar peoples from another earth And all the Orient ravished from its home. But should the East and barbarous treaties fail, Fate, bear our shipwrecked fortunes past the bounds Of earth, as known to men. The kings I made I supplicate not, but in death shall take To other spheres this solace: chief of all; His hands, my kinsman's, never shed my blood Nor soothed me dying. Yet as my mind in turn The varying fortunes of my life recalls, How was I glorious in that Eastern world! How great my name by far Maeotis marsh And where swift Tanais flows! No other land Has so resounded with my conquests won, So sent me home triumphant. Rome, do thou Approve my enterprise! What happier chance Could favouring gods afford thee? Parthian hosts Shall fight the civil wars of Rome, and share Her ills, and fall enfeebled. When the arms Of Caesar meet with Parthian in the fray, Then must kind Fortune vindicate my lot Or Crassus be avenged."

But murmurs rose, And Magnus speaking knew his words condemned. Then Lentulas (12) answered, with indignant soul, Foremost to rouse their valour, thus in words Worthy a Consul: "Have Thessalian woes Broken thy spirit so? One day's defeat Condemned the world to ruin? Is the cause Lost in one battle and beyond recall? Find we no cure for wounds? Does Fortune drive Thee, Magnus, to the Parthians' feet alone? And dost thou, fugitive, spurn the lands and skies Known heretofore, and seek for other poles And constellations, and Chaldaean gods, And rites barbarian, servant of the realm Of Parthia? But why then took we arms For love of liberty? If thou canst slave Thou hast deceived the world! Shall Parthia see Thee at whose name, ruler of mighty Rome, She trembled, at whose feet she captive saw Hyrcanian kings and Indian princes kneel, Now humbly suppliant, victim of the fates; And at thy prayer her puny strength extol In mad contention with the Western world? Nor think, Pompeius, thou shalt plead thy cause In that proud tongue unknown to Parthian ears Of which thy fame is worthy; sobs and tears He shall demand of thee. And has our shame Brought us to this, that some barbarian foe Shall venge Hesperia's wrongs ere Rome her own? Thou wert our leader for the civil war: Mid Scythia's peoples dost thou bruit abroad Wounds and disasters which are ours alone? Rome until now, though subject to the yoke Of civic despots, yet within her walls Has brooked no foreign lord. And art thou pleased From all the world to summon to her gates These savage peoples, while the standards lost By far Euphrates when the Crassi fell Shall lead thy columns? Shall the only king Who failed Emathia, while the fates yet hid Their favouring voices, brave the victor's power, And join with thine his fortune? Nay, not so This nation trusts itself. Each race that claims A northern birth, unconquered in the fray Claims but the warrior's death; but as the sky Slopes towards the eastern tracts and gentler climes So are the nations. There in flowing robes And garments delicate are men arrayed. True that the Parthian in Sarmatia's plains, Where Tigris spreads across the level meads, Contends invincible; for flight is his Unbounded; but should uplands bar his path He scales them not; nor through the night of war Shall his weak bow uncertain in its aim Repel the foeman; nor his strength of arm The torrent stem; nor all a summer's day In dust and blood bear up against the foe. They fill no hostile trench, nor in their hands Shall battering engine or machine of war Dash down the rampart; and whate'er avails To stop their arrows, battles like a wall. (13) Wide sweep their horsemen, fleeting in attack And light in onset, and their troops shall yield A camp, not take it: poisoned are their shafts; Nor do they dare a combat hand to hand; But as the winds may suffer, from afar They draw their bows at venture. Brave men love The sword which, wielded by a stalwart arm, Drives home the blow and makes the battle sure. Not such their weapons; and the first assault Shall force the flying Mede with coward hand And empty quiver from the field. His faith In poisoned blades is placed; but trustest thou Those who without such aid refuse the war? For such alliance wilt thou risk a death, With all the world between thee and thy home? Shall some barbarian earth or lowly grave Enclose thee perishing? E'en that were shame While Crassus seeks a sepulchre in vain. Thy lot is happy; death, unfeared by men, Is thy worst doom, Pompeius; but no death Awaits Cornelia — such a fate for her This king shall not reserve; for know not we The hateful secrets of barbarian love, Which, blind as that of beasts, the marriage bed Pollutes with wives unnumbered? Nor the laws By nature made respect they, nor of kin. In ancient days the fable of the crime By tyrant Oedipus unwitting wrought, Brought hate upon his city; but how oft Sits on the throne of Arsaces a prince Of birth incestuous? This gracious dame Born of Metellus, noblest blood of Rome, Shall share the couch of the barbarian king With thousand others: yet in savage joy, Proud of her former husbands, he may grant Some larger share of favour; and the fates May seem to smile on Parthia; for the spouse Of Crassus, captive, shall to him be brought As spoil of former conquest. If the wound Dealt in that fell defeat in eastern lands Still stirs thy heart, then double is the shame First to have waged the war upon ourselves, Then ask the foe for succour. For what blame Can rest on thee or Caesar, worse than this That in the clash of conflict ye forgot For Crassus' slaughtered troops the vengeance due? First should united Rome upon the Mede Have poured her captains, and the troops who guard The northern frontier from the Dacian hordes; And all her legions should have left the Rhine Free to the Teuton, till the Parthian dead Were piled in heaps upon the sands that hide Our heroes slain; and haughty Babylon Lay at her victor's feet. To this foul peace We pray an end; and if Thessalia's day Has closed our warfare, let the conqueror march Straight on our Parthian foe. Then should this heart, Then only, leap at Caesar's triumph won. Go thou and pass Araxes' chilly stream On this thine errand; and the fleeting ghost Pierced by the Scythian shaft shall greet thee thus: 'Art thou not he to whom our wandering shades Looked for their vengeance in the guise of war? And dost thou sue for peace?' There shalt thou meet Memorials of the dead. Red is yon wall Where passed their headless trunks: Euphrates here Engulfed them slain, or Tigris' winding stream Cast on the shore to perish. Gaze on this, And thou canst supplicate at Caesar's feet In mid Thessalia seated. Nay, thy glance Turn on the Roman world, and if thou fear'st King Juba faithless and the southern realms, Then seek we Pharos. Egypt on the west Girt by the trackless Syrtes forces back By sevenfold stream the ocean; rich in glebe And gold and merchandise; and proud of Nile Asks for no rain from heaven. Now holds this boy Her sceptre, owed to thee; his guardian thou: And who shall fear this shadow of a name? Hope not from monarchs old, whose shame is fled, Or laws or troth or honour of the gods: New kings bring mildest sway." (14)

His words prevailed Upon his hearers. With what freedom speaks, When states are trembling, patriot despair! Pompeius' voice was quelled.

They hoist their sails For Cyprus shaped, whose altars more than all The goddess loves who from the Paphian wave Sprang, mindful of her birth, if such be truth, And gods have origin. Past the craggy isle Pompeius sailing, left at length astern Its southern cape, and struck across the main With winds transverse and tides; nor reached the mount Grateful to sailors for its nightly gleam: But to the bounds of Egypt hardly won With battling canvas, where divided Nile Pours through the shallows his Pelusian stream. (15) Now was the season when the heavenly scale Most nearly balances the varying hours, Once only equal; for the wintry day Repays to night her losses of the spring; And Magnus learning that th' Egyptian king Lay by Mount Casius, ere the sun was set Or flagged his canvas, thither steered his ship.

Already had a horseman from the shore In rapid gallop to the trembling court Brought news their guest was come. Short was the time For counsel given; but in haste were met All who advised the base Pellaean king, Monsters, inhuman; there Achoreus sat Less harsh in failing years, in Memphis born Of empty rites, and guardian of the rise (16) Of fertilising Nile. While he was priest Not only once had Apis (17) lived the space Marked by the crescent on his sacred brow. First was his voice, for Magnus raised and troth And for the pledges of the king deceased: But, skilled in counsel meet for shameless minds And tyrant hearts, Pothinus, dared to claim Judgment of death on Magnus. "Laws and right Make many guilty, Ptolemmus king. And faith thus lauded (18) brings its punishment When it supports the fallen. To the fates Yield thee, and to the gods; the wretched shun But seek the happy. As the stars from earth Differ, and fire from ocean, so from right Expedience. (19) The tyrant's shorn of strength Who ponders justice; and regard for right Bring's ruin on a throne. For lawless power The best defence is crime, and cruel deeds Find safety but in doing. He that aims At piety must flee the regal hall; Virtue's the bane of rule; he lives in dread Who shrinks from cruelty. Nor let this chief Unpunished scorn thy youth, who thinks that thou Not even the conquered from our shore can'st bar. Nor to a stranger, if thou would'st not reign, Resign thy sceptre, for the ties of blood Speak for thy banished sister. Let her rule O'er Nile and Pharos: we shall at the least Preserve our Egypt from the Latian arms. What Magnus owned not ere the war was done, No more shall Caesar. Driven from all the world, Trusting no more to Fortune, now he seeks Some foreign nation which may share his fate. Shades of the slaughtered in the civil war Compel him: nor from Caesar's arms alone But from the Senate also does he fly, Whose blood outpoured has gorged Thessalian fowl; Monarchs he fears whose all he hath destroyed, And nations piled in one ensanguined heap, By him deserted. Victim of the blow Thessalia dealt, refused in every land, He asks for help from ours not yet betrayed. But none than Egypt with this chief from Rome Has juster quarrel; who has sought with arms To stain our Pharos, distant from the strife And peaceful ever, and to make our realm Suspected by his victor. Why alone Should this our country please thee in thy fall? Why bringst thou here the burden of thy fates, Pharsalia's curse? In Caesar's eyes long since We have offence which by the sword alone Can find its condonation, in that we By thy persuasion from the Senate gained This our dominion. By our prayers we helped If not by arms thy cause. This sword, which fate Bids us make ready, not for thee I hold Prepared, but for the vanquished; and on thee (Would it had been on Caesar) falls the stroke; For we are borne. as all things, to his side. And dost thou doubt, since thou art in my power, Thou art my victim? By what trust in us Cam'st thou, unhappy? Scarce our people tills The fields, though softened by the refluent Nile: Know well our strength, and know we can no more. Rome 'neath the ruin of Pompeius lies: Shalt thou, king, uphold him? Shalt thou dare To stir Pharsalia's ashes and to call War to thy kingdom? Ere the fight was fought We joined not either army — shall we now Make Magnus friend whom all the world deserts? And fling a challenge to the conquering chief And all his proud successes? Fair is help Lent in disaster, yet reserved for those Whom fortune favours. Faith her friends selects Not from the wretched."

They decree the crime: Proud is the boyish tyrant that so soon His slaves permit him to so great a deed To give his favouring voice; and for the work They choose Achillas.

Where the treacherous shore Runs out in sand below the Casian mount And where the shallow waters of the sea Attest the Syrtes near, in little boat Achillas and his partners in the crime With swords embark. Ye gods! and shall the Nile And barbarous Memphis and th' effeminate crew That throngs Pelusian Canopus raise Its thoughts to such an enterprise? Do thus Our fates press on the world? Is Rome thus fallen That in our civil frays the Phaxian sword Finds place, or Egypt? O, may civil war Be thus far faithful that the hand which strikes Be of our kindred; and the foreign fiend Held worlds apart! Pompeius, great in soul, Noble in spirit, had deserved a death From Caesar's self. And, king, hast thou no fear At such a ruin of so great a name? And dost thou dare when heaven's high thunder rolls, Thou, puny boy, to mingle with its tones Thine impure utterance? Had he not won A world by arms, and thrice in triumph scaled The sacred Capitol, and vanquished kings, And championed the Roman Senate's cause; He, kinsman of the victor? 'Twas enough To cause forbearance in a Pharian king, That he was Roman. Wherefore with thy sword Dost stab our breasts? Thou know'st not, impious boy, How stand thy fortunes; now no more by right Hast thou the sceptre of the land of Nile; For prostrate, vanquished in the civil wars Is he who gave it.

Furling now his sails, Magnus with oars approached th' accursed land, When in their little boat the murderous crew Drew nigh, and feigning from th' Egyptian court A ready welcome, blamed the double tides Broken by shallows, and their scanty beach Unfit for fleets; and bade him to their craft Leaving his loftier ship. Had not the fates' Eternal and unalterable laws Called for their victim and decreed his end Now near at hand, his comrades' warning voice Yet might have stayed his course: for if the court To Magnus, who bestowed the Pharian crown, In truth were open, should not king and fleet In pomp have come to greet him? But he yields: The fates compel. Welcome to him was death Rather than fear. But, rushing to the side, His spouse would follow, for she dared not stay, Fearing the guile. Then he, "Abide, my wife, And son, I pray you; from the shore afar Await my fortunes; mine shall be the life To test their honour." But Cornelia still Withstood his bidding, and with arms outspread Frenzied she cried: "And whither without me, Cruel, departest? Thou forbad'st me share Thy risks Thessalian; dost again command That I should part from thee? No happy star Breaks on our sorrow. If from every land Thou dost debar me, why didst turn aside In flight to Lesbos? On the waves alone Am I thy fit companion?" Thus in vain, Leaning upon the bulwark, dazed with dread; Nor could she turn her straining gaze aside, Nor see her parting husband. All the fleet Stood silent, anxious, waiting for the end: Not that they feared the murder which befell, But lest their leader might with humble prayer Kneel to the king he made.

As Magnus passed, A Roman soldier from the Pharian boat, Septimius, salutes him. Gods of heaven! There stood he, minion to a barbarous king, Nor bearing still the javelin of Rome; But vile in all his arms; giant in form Fierce, brutal, thirsting as a beast may thirst For carnage. Didst thou, Fortune, for the sake Of nations, spare to dread Pharsalus field This savage monster's blows? Or dost thou place Throughout the world, for thy mysterious ends, Some ministering swords for civil war? Thus, to the shame of victors and of gods, This story shall be told in days to come: A Roman swordsman, once within thy ranks, Slave to the orders of a puny prince, Severed Pompeius' neck. And what shall be Septimius' fame hereafter? By what name This deed be called, if Brutus wrought a crime?

Now came the end, the latest hour of all: Rapt to the boat was Magnus, of himself No longer master, and the miscreant crew Unsheathed their swords; which when the chieftain saw He swathed his visage, for he scorned unveiled To yield his life to fortune; closed his eyes And held his breath within him, lest some word, Or sob escaped, might mar the deathless fame His deeds had won. And when within his side Achillas plunged his blade, nor sound nor cry He gave, but calm consented to the blow And proved himself in dying; in his breast These thoughts revolving: "In the years to come Men shall make mention of our Roman toils, Gaze on this boat, ponder the Pharian faith; And think upon thy fame and all the years While fortune smiled: but for the ills of life How thou could'st bear them, this men shall not know Save by thy death. Then weigh thou not the shame That waits on thine undoing. Whose strikes, The blow is Caesar's. Men may tear this frame And cast it mangled to the winds of heaven; Yet have I prospered, nor can all the gods Call back my triumphs. Life may bring defeat, But death no misery. If my spouse and son Behold me murdered, silently the more I suffer: admiration at my death Shall prove their love." Thus did Pompeius die, Guarding his thoughts.

But now Cornelia filled The air with lamentations at the sight; "O, husband, whom my wicked self hath slain! That lonely isle apart thy bane hath been And stayed thy coming. Caesar to the Nile Has won before us; for what other hand May do such work? But whosoe'er thou art Sent from the gods with power, for Caesar's ire, Or thine own sake, to slay, thou dost not know Where lies the heart of Magnus. Haste and do! Such were his prayer — no other punishment Befits the conquered. Yet let him ere his end See mine, Cornelia's. On me the blame Of all these wars, who sole of Roman wives Followed my spouse afield nor feared the fates; And in disaster, when the kings refused, Received and cherished him. Did I deserve Thus to be left of thee, and didst thou seek To spare me? And when rushing on thine end Was I to live? Without the monarch's help Death shall be mine, either by headlong leap Beneath the waters; or some sailor's hand Shall bind around this neck the fatal cord; Or else some comrade, worthy of his chief, Drive to my heart his blade for Magnus' sake, And claim the service done to Ceasar's arms. What! does your cruelty withhold my fate? Ah! still he lives, nor is it mine as yet To win this freedom; they forbid me death, Kept for the victor's triumph." Thus she spake, While friendly hands upheld her fainting form; And sped the trembling vessel from the shore.

Men say that Magnus, when the deadly blows Fell thick upon him, lost nor form divine, Nor venerated mien; and as they gazed Upon his lacerated head they marked Still on his features anger with the gods. Nor death could change his visage — for in act Of striking, fierce Septimius' murderous hand (Thus making worse his crime) severed the folds That swathed the face, and seized the noble head And drooping neck ere yet was fled the life: Then placed upon the bench; and with his blade Slow at its hideous task, and blows unskilled Hacked through the flesh and brake the knotted bone: For yet man had not learned by swoop of sword Deftly to lop the neck. Achillas claimed The gory head dissevered. What! shalt thou A Roman soldier, while thy blade yet reeks From Magnus' slaughter, play the second part To this base varlet of the Pharian king? Nor bear thyself the bleeding trophy home? Then, that the impious boy (ah! shameful fate) Might know the features of the hero slain, Seized by the locks, the dread of kings, which waved Upon his stately front, on Pharian pike The head was lifted; while almost the life Gave to the tongue its accents, and the eyes Were yet scarce glazed: that head at whose command Was peace or war, that tongue whose eloquent tones Would move assemblies, and that noble brow On which were showered the rewards of Rome. Nor to the tyrant did the sight suffice To prove the murder done. The perishing flesh, The tissues, and the brain he bids remove By art nefarious: the shrivelled skin Draws tight upon the bone; and poisonous juice Gives to the face its lineaments in death.

Last of thy race, thou base degenerate boy, About to perish (20) soon, and yield the throne To thine incestuous sister; while the Prince From Macedon here in consecrated vault Now rests, and ashes of the kings are closed In mighty pyramids, and lofty tombs Of thine unworthy fathers mark the graves; Shall Magnus' body hither and thither borne Be battered, headless, by the ocean wave? Too much it troubled thee to guard the corse Unmutilated, for his kinsman's eye To witness! Such the faith which Fortune kept With prosperous Pompeius to the end. 'Twas not for him in evil days some ray Of light to hope for. Shattered from the height Of power in one short moment to his death! Years of unbroken victories balanced down By one day's carnage! In his happy time Heaven did not harass him, nor did she spare In misery. Long Fortune held the hand That dashed him down. Now beaten by the sands, Torn upon rocks, the sport of ocean's waves Poured through its wounds, his headless carcase lies, Save by the lacerated trunk unknown.

Yet ere the victor touched the Pharian sands Some scanty rites to Magnus Fortune gave, Lest he should want all burial. Pale with fear Came Cordus, hasting from his hiding place; Quaestor, he joined Pompeius on thy shore, Idalian Cyprus, bringing in his train A cloud of evils. Through the darkening shades Love for the dead compelled his trembling steps, Hard by the marin of the deep to search And drag to land his master. Through the clouds The moon shone sadly, and her rays were dim; But by its hue upon the hoary main He knew the body. In a fast embrace He holds it, wrestling with the greedy sea, And deftly watching for a refluent wave Gains help to bring his burden to the land. Then clinging to the loved remains, the wounds Washed with his tears, thus to the gods he speaks, And misty stars obscure: "Here, Fortune, lies Pompeius, thine: no costly incense rare Or pomp of funeral he dares to ask; Nor that the smoke rise heavenward from his pyre With eastern odours rich; nor that the necks Of pious Romans bear him to the tomb, Their parent; while the forums shall resound With dirges; nor that triumphs won of yore Be borne before him; nor for sorrowing hosts To cast their weapons forth. Some little shell He begs as for the meanest, laid in which His mutilated corse may reach the flame. Grudge not his misery the pile of wood Lit by this menial hand. Is't not enough That his Cornelia with dishevelled hair Weeps not beside him at his obsequies, Nor with a last embrace shall place the torch Beneath her husband dead, but on the deep Hard by still wanders?"

Burning from afar He sees the pyre of some ignoble youth Deserted of his own, with none to guard: And quickly drawing from beneath the limbs Some glowing logs, "Whoe'er thou art," he said "Neglected shade, uncared for, dear to none, Yet happier than Pompeius in thy death, Pardon I ask that this my stranger hand Should violate thy tomb. Yet if to shades Be sense or memory, gladly shalt thou yield This from thy pyre to Magnus. 'Twere thy shame, Blessed with due burial, if his remains Were homeless." Speaking thus, the wood aflame Back to the headless trunk at speed he bore, Which hanging on the margin of the deep, Almost the sea had won. In sandy trench The gathered fragments of a broken boat, Trembling, he placed around the noble limbs. No pile above the corpse nor under lay, Nor was the fire beneath. Then as he crouched Beside the blaze, "O, greatest chief," he cried, Majestic champion of Hesperia's name, If to be tossed unburied on the deep Rather than these poor rites thy shade prefer, From these mine offices thy mighty soul Withdraw, Pompeius. Injuries dealt by fate Command this duty, lest some bird or beast Or ocean monster, or fierce Caesar's wrath Should venture aught upon thee. Take the fire; All that thou canst; by Roman hand at least Enkindled. And should Fortune grant return To loved Hesperia's land, not here shall rest Thy sacred ashes; but within an urn Cornelia, from this humble hand received, Shall place them. Here upon a meagre stone We draw the characters to mark thy tomb. These letters reading may some kindly friend Bring back thine head, dissevered, and may grant Full funeral honours to thine earthly frame."

Then did he cherish the enfeebled fire Till Magnus' body mingled with its flames. But now the harbinger of coming dawn Had paled the constellations: he in fear Seeks for his hiding place. Whom dost thou dread, Madman, what punishment for such a crime, For which thy fame by rumour trumpet-tongued Has been sent down to ages? Praise is thine For this thy work, at impious Caesar's hands; Sure of a pardon, go; confess thy task, And beg the head dissevered. But his work Was still unfinished, and with pious hand (Fearing some foe) he seizes on the bones Now half consumed, and sinews; and the wave Pours in upon them, and in shallow trench Commits them to the earth; and lest some breeze Might bear away the ashes, or by chance Some sailor's anchor might disturb the tomb, A stone he places, and with stick half burned Traces the sacred name: HERE MAGNUS LIES.

And art thou, Fortune, pleased that such a spot Should be his tomb which even Caesar's self Had chosen, rather than permit his corse To rest unburied? Why, with thoughtless hand Confine his shade within the narrow bounds Of this poor sepulchre? Where the furthest sand Hangs on the margin of the baffled deep Cabined he lies; yet where the Roman name Is known, and Empire, such in truth shall be The boundless measure of his resting-place. Blot out this stone, this proof against the gods! Oeta finds room for Hercules alone, And Nysa's mountain for the Bromian god; (21) Not all the lands of Egypt should suffice For Magnus dead: and shall one Pharian stone Mark his remains? Yet should no turf disclose His title, peoples of the earth would fear To spurn his ashes, and the sands of Nile No foot would tread. But if the stone deserves So great a name, then add his mighty deeds: Write Lepidus conquered and the Alpine war, And fierce Sertorius by his aiding arm O'erthrown; the chariots which as knight he drove; (22) Cilician pirates driven from the main, And Commerce safe to nations; Eastern kings Defeated and the barbarous Northern tribes; Write that from arms he ever sought the robe; Write that content upon the Capitol Thrice only triumphed he, nor asked his due. What mausoleum were for such a chief A fitting monument? This paltry stone Records no syllable of the lengthy tale Of honours: and the name which men have read Upon the sacred temples of the gods, And lofty arches built of hostile spoils, On desolate sands here marks his lowly grave With characters uncouth, such as the glance Of passing traveller or Roman guest Might pass unnoticed.

Thou Egyptian land By destiny foredoomed to bear a part In civil warfare, not unreasoning sang High Cumae's prophetess, when she forbad (23) The stream Pelusian to the Roman arms, And all the banks which in the summer-tide Are covered by his flood. What grievous fate Shall I call down upon thee? May the Nile Turn back his water to his source, thy fields Want for the winter rain, and all the land Crumble to desert wastes! We in our fanes Have known thine Isis and thy hideous gods, Half hounds, half human, and the drum that bids To sorrow, and Osiris, whom thy dirge (24) Proclaims for man. Thou, Egypt, in thy sand Our dead containest. Nor, though her temples now Serve a proud master, yet has Rome required Pompeius' ashes: in a foreign land Still lies her chief. But though men feared at first The victor's vengeance, now at length receive Thy Magnus' bones, if still the restless wave Hath not prevailed upon that hated shore. Shall men have fear of tombs and dread to move The dust of those who should be with the gods? O, may my country place the crime on me, If crime it be, to violate such a tomb Of such a hero, and to bear his dust Home to Ausonia. Happy, happy he Who bears such holy office in his trust! (25) Haply when famine rages in the land Or burning southern winds, or fires abound And earthquake shocks, and Rome shall pray an end From angry heaven — by the gods' command, In council given, shalt thou be transferred To thine own city, and the priest shall bear Thy sacred ashes to their last abode.

Who now may seek beneath the raging Crab Or hot Syene's waste, or Thebes athirst Under the rainy Pleiades, to gaze On Nile's broad stream; or whose may exchange On the Red Sea or in Arabian ports Some Eastern merchandise, shall turn in awe To view the venerable stone that marks Thy grave, Pompeius; and shall worship more Thy dust commingled with the arid sand, Thy shade though exiled, than the fane upreared (26) On Casius' mount to Jove! In temples shrined And gold, thy memory were viler deemed: Fortune lies with thee in thy lowly tomb And makes thee rival of Olympus' king. More awful is that stone by Libyan seas Lashed, than are Conquerors' altars. There in earth A deity rests to whom all men shall bow More than to gods Tarpeian: and his name Shall shine the brighter in the days to come For that no marble tomb about him stands Nor lofty monument. That little dust Time shall soon scatter and the tomb shall fall And all the proofs shall perish of his death. And happier days shall come when men shall gaze Upon the stone, nor yet believe the tale: And Egypt's fable, that she holds the grave Of great Pompeius, be believed no more Than Crete's which boasts the sepulchre of Jove. (27)

ENDNOTES:

(1) Comp. Book VI., line 407. (2) Comp. Book III., line 256. (3) Canopus is a star in Argo, invisible in Italy. (Haskins.) (4) Sextus. (5) Tetrarch of Galatia. He was always friendly to Rome, and in the civil war sided with Pompeius. He was at Pharsalia. (6) A Scythian people. (7) Pompeius seems to have induced the Roman public to believe that he had led his armies to such extreme distances, but he never in fact did so. — Mommsen, vol. iv. p. 147. (8) Juba was of supposed collateral descent from Hannibal. (Haskins, quoting "The Scholiast.") (9) Confusing the Red Sea with the Persian Gulf. (10) Balkh of modern times. Bactria was one of the kingdoms established by the successors of Alexander the Great. It was, however, subdued by the Parthians about the middle of the third century B.C. (11) Dion could not believe it possible that Pompeius ever contemplated taking refuge in Parthia, but Plutarch states it as a fact; and says that it was Theophanes of Lesbos who dissuaded him from doing so. ("Pompeius", 76). Mommsen (vol. iv., pp. 421-423) discusses the subject, and says that from Parthia only could Pompeius have attempted to seek support, and that such an attempt, putting the objections to it aside, would probably have failed. Lucan's sympathies were probably with Lentulus. (12) Probably Lucius Lentulus Crus, who had been Consul, for B.C. 49, along with Caius Marcellus. (See Book V., 9.) He was murdered in Egypt by Ptolemy's ministers. (13) That is, be as easily defended. (14) Thus rendered by Sir Thomas May, of the Long Parliament: "Men used to sceptres are ashamed of nought: The mildest governement a kingdome finds Under new kings." (15) That is, he reached the most eastern mouth of the Nile instead of the western. (16) At Memphis was the well in which the rise and fall of the water acted as a Nilometer (Mr. Haskins's note). (17) Comp. Herodotus, Book iii. 27. Apis was a god who appeared at intervals in the shape of a calf with a white mark on his brow. His appearance was the occasion of general rejoicing. Cambyses slew the Apis which came in his time, and for this cause became mad, as the Egyptians said. (18) That is, by Achoreus, who had just spoken. (19) Compare Ben Jonson's "Sejanus", Act ii., Scene 2: — The prince who shames a tyrant's name to bear Shall never dare do anything, but fear; All the command of sceptres quite doth perish If it begin religious thoughts to cherish; Whole empires fall, swayed by these nice respects, It is the licence of dark deeds protects E'en states most hated, when no laws resist The sword, but that it acteth what it list." (20) He was drowned in attempting to escape in the battle on the Nile in the following autumn. (21) Dionysus. But this god, though brought up by the nymphs of Mount Nysa, was not supposed to have been buried there. (22) See Book VII., line 20. (23) This warning of the Sibyl is also alluded to by Cicero in a letter to P. Lentulus, Proconsul of Cilicia. (Mr. Haskins' note. See also Mommsen, vol. iv., p. 305.) It seems to have been discovered in the Sibylline books at the time when it was desired to prevent Pompeius from interfering in the affairs of Egypt, in B.C. 57. (24) That is, by their weeping for Iris departure they treated him as a mortal and not as a god. Osiris was the soul of Apis (see on line 537), and when that animal grew old and unfit for the residence of Osiris the latter was thought to quit it. Then began the weeping. which continued until a new Apis appeared, selected, of course, by Osiris for his dwelling-place. Then they called out "We have found him, let us rejoice." For a discussion on the Egyptian conception of Osiris, and Iris place in the theogony of that nation, see Hegel's "Lectures on the Philosophy of History": Chapter on Egypt. (25) It may be noted that the Emperor Hadrian raised a monument on the spot to the memory of Pompeius some sixty years after this was written (Durny's 'History of Rome,' iii., 319). Plutarch states that Cornelia had the remains taken to Rome and interred in a mausoleum. Lucan, it may be supposed, knew nothing of this. (26) There was a temple to Jupiter on "Mount Casius old". (27) The legend that Jove was buried in Crete is also mentioned by Cicero: "De Natura Deorum", iii., 21.