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(From Pharsalia, Book VI)
Translated by N. Rowe
WHERE Eurus blows, and wintry suns arise, | |
| Thessalia’s boundary proud Ossa lies; | |
| But when the God protracts the longer day, | |
| Pelion’s broad back receives the dawning ray. | |
| Where through the lion’s fiery sign he flies, | 5 |
| Othrys his leafy groves for shade supplies. | |
| On Pindus strikes the fady western light, | |
| When glittering Vesper leads the starry night. | |
| Northward, Olympus hides the lamps, that roll | |
| Their paler fires around the frozen pole. | 10 |
| The middle space, a valley low depressed, | |
| Once a wide, lazy, standing lake possessed; | |
| While growing still the heapy waters stood, | |
| Nor down through Tempe ran the rushing flood: | |
| But when Alcides to the task applied, | 15 |
| And cleft a passage through the mountains wide; | |
| Gushing at once the thundering torrent flowed, | |
| While Nereus groaned beneath the increasing load. | |
| Then rose (O, that it still a lake had lain!) | |
| Above the waves Pharsalia’s fatal plain, | 20 |
| Once subject to the great Achilles’ reign. | |
| Then Phylace was built, whose warriors boast | |
| Their chief first landed on the Trojan coast; | |
| Then Pteleos ran her circling wall around, | |
| And Dorion, for the Muses’ wrath renowned; | 25 |
| Then Trachin high, and Melibœa stood, | |
| Where Hercules his fatal shafts bestowed; | |
| Larissa strong arose, and Argos, now | |
| A plain, submitted to the laboring plough. | |
| Here stood the town, if there be truth in fame, | 30 |
| That from Bœotian Thebes received its name. | |
| Here sad Agave’s wandering sense returned, | |
| Here for her murdered son the mother mourned; | |
| With streaming tears she washed his ghastly head, | |
| And on the funeral pile the precious relic laid. | 35 |
| The gushing waters various soon divide, | |
| And every river rules a separate tide; | |
| The narrow Æas runs a limpid flood, | |
| Evenos blushes with the Centaur’s blood; | |
| That gently mingles with the Ionian sea, | 40 |
| While this, through Calydonia, cuts his way. | |
| Slowly fair Io’s aged father falls, | |
| And in hoarse murmurs his lost daughter calls. | |
| Thick Acheloüs rolls his troubled waves, | |
| And heavily the neighbor isles he laves; | 45 |
| While pure Amphrysus winds along the mead, | |
| Where Phœbus once was wont his flocks to feed: | |
| Oft on the banks he sat a shepherd swain, | |
| And watched his charge upon the grassy plain. | |
| Swift to the main his course Sperchios bends, | 50 |
| And, sounding, to the Malian gulf descends. | |
| No breezy air near calm Anauros flies, | |
| No dewy mists, nor fleecy clouds arise. | |
| Here Phœnix, Melas, and Asopus run, | |
| And strong Apidanus drives slow Enipeus on. | 55 |
| A thousand little brooks, unknown to fame, | |
| Are mixed, and lost in Peneus’ nobler name: | |
| Bold Titaresus scorns his rule, alone, | |
| And, joined to Peneus, still himself is known: | |
| As o’er the land his haughty waters glide, | 60 |
| And roll unmingling, a superior tide. | |
| ’T is said through secret channels winding forth, | |
| Deep as from Styx he takes his hallowed birth; | |
| Thence, proud to be revered by gods on high, | |
| He scorns to mingle with a mean ally. * * * * * | 65 |
| Late, and unwilling, from his watery bed, | |
| Upreared the mournful sun his cloudy head | |
| He sickened to behold Emathia’s plain, | |
| And would have sought the backward east again: | |
| Full oft he turned him from the destined race, | 70 |
| And wished some dark eclipse might veil his radiant face. | |
| Pompey, meanwhile, in pleasing visions past | |
| The night of all his happy nights the last. | |
| It seemed, as if, in all his former state, | |
| In his own theatre secure he sate: | 75 |
| About his side unnumbered Romans crowd, | |
| And, joyful, shout his much-loved name aloud; | |
| The echoing benches seem to ring around, | |
| And his charmed ears devour the pleasing sound. | |
| Such both himself, and such the people seem, | 80 |
| In the false prospect of the feigning dream; | |
| As when in early manhood’s beardless bloom, | |
| He stood the darling hope and joy of Rome. | |
| When fierce Sertorius by his arms suppressed, | |
| And Spain subdued, the conqueror confessed; | 85 |
| When raised with honors never known before, | |
| The consuls’ purple, yet a youth, he wore: | |
| When the pleased senate sat with new delight, | |
| To view the triumph of a Roman knight. | |
| Perhaps, when our good days no longer last, | 90 |
| The mind runs backward, and enjoys the past; | |
| Perhaps, the riddling visions of the night | |
| With contrarieties delude our sight; | |
| And when fair scenes of pleasure they disclose, | |
| Pain they foretell, and sure ensuing woes. | 95 |
| Or was it not that, since the Fates ordain | |
| Pompey should never see his Rome again, | |
| One last good office yet they meant to do, | |
| And gave him in a dream this parting view? | |
| O, may no trumpet bid the leader wake! | 100 |
| Long, let him long the blissful slumber take! | |
| Too soon the morrow’s sleepless night will come, | |
| Full fraught with slaughter, misery, and Rome; | |
| With horror and dismay those shades shall rise, | |
| And the lost battle live before his eyes. * * * * * | 105 |
| Straight, at the fatal signal, all around | |
| A thousand fifes, a thousand clarions sound; | |
| Beyond where clouds or glancing lightnings fly, | |
| The piercing clangors strike the vaulted sky. | |
| The joining battles shout, and the loud peal | 110 |
| Bounds from the hill, and thunders in the vale; | |
| Old Pelion’s caves the doubling roar return, | |
| And Œta’s rocks, and groaning Pindus mourn; | |
| From pole to pole the tumult spreads afar, | |
| And the world trembles at the distant war. | 115 |
| Now flit the thrilling darts through liquid air, | |
| And various vows from various masters bear: | |
| Some seek the noblest Roman heart to wound, | |
| And some to err upon the guiltless ground; | |
| While chance decrees the blood that shall be spilt, | 120 |
| And blindly scatters innocence and guilt. | |
| But random shafts too scanty death afford, | |
| A civil war is business for the sword: | |
| Where face to face the parricides may meet, | |
| Know whom they kill, and make the crime complete. | 125 |
| Firm in the front, with joining bucklers closed, | |
| Stood the Pompeian infantry disposed; | |
| So crowded was the space, it scarce affords | |
| The power to toss their piles, or wield their swords. | |
| Forward, thus thick embattled though they stand, | 130 |
| With headlong wrath rush furious Cæsar’s band; | |
| In vain the lifted shield their rage retards, | |
| Or plaited mail devoted bosoms guards; | |
| Through shields, through mail, the wounding weapons go, | |
| And to the heart drive home each deadly blow; | 135 |
| O rage ill-matched! O much unequal war, | |
| Which those wage proudly, and these tamely bear! | |
| These by cold, stupid piety disarmed; | |
| Those by hot blood and smoking slaughter warmed. | |
| Nor in suspense uncertain Fortune hung, | 140 |
| But yields, o’ermastered by a power too strong, | |
| And borne by fate’s impetuous stream along. | |
| From Pompey’s ample wings, at length, the horse | |
| Wide o’er the plain extending take their course; | |
| Wheeling around the hostile line they wind, | 145 |
| While lightly armed the foot succeed behind. | |
| In various ways the various bands engage, | |
| And hurl upon the foe the missile rage; | |
| There fiery darts and rocky fragments fly, | |
| And heated bullets whistle through the sky: | 150 |
| Of feathered shafts, a cloud thick shading goes, | |
| From Arab, Mede, and Ituræan bows: | |
| But driven by random aim they seldom wound; | |
| At first they hide the heaven, then strew the ground; | |
| While Roman hands unerring mischief send, | 155 |
| And certain deaths on every pile attend. | |
| But Cæsar, timely careful to support | |
| His wavering front against the first effort, | |
| Had placed his bodies of reserve behind, | |
| And the strong rear with chosen cohorts lined. | 160 |
| There, as the careless foe the fight pursue, | |
| A sudden band and stable forth he drew; | |
| When soon, O shame! the loose barbarians yield, | |
| Scattering their broken squadrons o’er the field, | |
| And show, too late, that slaves attempt in vain | 165 |
| The sacred cause of Freedom to maintain. | |
| The fiery steeds, impatient of a wound, | |
| Hurl their neglected riders to the ground; | |
| Or on their friends with rage ungoverned turn, | |
| And trampling o’er the helpless foot are borne. | 170 |
| Hence foul confusion, and dismay succeed, | |
| The victors murder, and the vanquished bleed: | |
| Their weary hands the tired destroyers ply, | |
| Scarce can these kill, so fast as those can die. | |
| O that Emathia’s ruthless guilty plain | 175 |
| Had been contented with this only stain; | |
| With these rude bones had strewn her verdure o’er, | |
| And dyed her springs with none but Asian gore! | |
| But if so keen her thirst for Roman blood, | |
| Let none but Romans make the slaughter good; | 180 |
| Let not a Mede nor Cappadocian fall, | |
| No bold Iberian, nor rebellious Gaul: | |
| Let these alone survive for times to come, | |
| And be the future citizens of Rome. | |
| But fear, on all alike, her powers employed, | 185 |
| Did Cæsar’s business, and like fate destroyed. | |
| Prevailing still the victors held their course, | |
| Till Pompey’s main reserve opposed their force; | |
| There, in his strength, the chief unshaken stood, | |
| Repelled the foe, and made the combat good; | 190 |
| There in suspense the uncertain battle hung, | |
| And Cæsar’s favoring Goddess doubted long; | |
| There no proud monarchs led their vassals on, | |
| Nor eastern bands in gorgeous purple shone; | |
| There the last force of laws and freedom lay, | 195 |
| And Roman patriots struggled for the day. | |
| What parricides the guilty scene affords! | |
| Sires, sons, and brothers, rush on mutual swords! | |
| There every sacred bond of nature bleeds; | |
| There met the war’s worst rage, and Cæsar’s blackest deeds. | 200 |
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