---
title: "Pharsalia · De Bello Civili"
author: "Lucan"
translator: "Sir Edward Ridley"
languages: [la, en]
shelf: "Classical Latin"
section: 14 of 21
url: https://scriptura.si/works/lucan-pharsalia/14/
cite: "Lucan, tr. Sir Edward Ridley, Pharsalia · De Bello Civili, section 14. Scriptura (scriptura.si), https://scriptura.si/works/lucan-pharsalia/14/"
---

# Pharsalia · De Bello Civili

*Lucan, tr. Sir Edward Ridley*

The civil war between Caesar and Pompey as dark epic, written under Nero by a poet he forced to die at twenty-five.

> Latin: ed. Karl Hermann Weise, from the Perseus Digital Library (canonical-latinLit, phi0917.phi001, CC BY-SA 4.0).

> English: Sir Edward Ridley, from the Perseus Digital Library (phi0917.phi001.perseus-eng2). Notes are not included.

> Rows follow the references the two texts share (line numbers), cut where both reach the end of a sentence.

## 14. Book VII · lines 460–872

Source: https://scriptura.si/works/lucan-pharsalia/14/ · cite a paragraph as https://scriptura.si/works/lucan-pharsalia/14/#p-N

[¶0] 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, 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
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 shafts unaimed, 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.

> Latin: Ut rapido cursu fati suprema morantem
Consumsere locum: parva tellure diremti,
Inde manus spectant, vultusque agnoscere quaerunt,
Quo sua pila cadant, aut quae sibi fata minentur,
Facturi quae monstra forent. Videre parentes
Frontibus adversis, fraternaque cominus arma,
Nec libuit mutare locum. Tamen omnia torpor
Pectora constrinxit: gelidusque in viscera sanguis
Perculsa pietate coit: totaeque cohortes
Pila parata diu tensis tenuere lacertis.
Di tibi non mortem, quae cunctis poena paratur,
Sed sensum post fata tuae dent, Crastine, morti,
Cuius torta manu commisit lancea bellum,
Primaque Thessaliam Romano sanguine tinxit.
O praeceps rabies, cum Caesar tela teneret,
Inventa est prior ulla manus! Tunc stridulus aer
Elisus lituis, conceptaque classica cornu:
Tunc ausae dare signa tubae: tunc aethera tendit,
Extremique fragor convexa irrupit Olympi,
Unde procul nubes, quo nulla tonitrua durant.
Excepit resonis clamorem vallibus Aemus,
Peliacisque dedit rursus geminare cavernis:
Pindus agit fremitus, Pangaeaque saxa resultant,
Oetaeaeque gemunt rupes: vocesque furoris
Expavere sui tota tellure relatas.
Spargitur innumerum diversis missile votis.
Vulnera pars optat, pars terrae figere tela,
Ac puras servare manus. Rapit omnia casus,
Atque incerta facit, quos vult, Fortuna nocentes.
Sed quota pars cladis iaculis ferroque volanti
Exacta est? Odiis solus civilibus ensis
Sufficit, et dextras Romana in viscera ducit.
Pompeii densis acies stipata catervis,
Iunxerat in seriem nexis umbonibus arma:
Vixque habitura locum dextras ac tela movendi,
Constiterat, gladiosque suos compressa tenebat.
Praecipiti cursu vesanum Caesaris agmen
In densos agitur cuneos: perque arma, per hostem
Quaerit iter. Qua torta graves lorica catenas
Opponit, tutoque latet sub tegmine pectus,
Hac quoque perventum est ad viscera: totque per arma
Extremum est, quod quisque ferit. Civilia bella
Una acies patitur, gerit altera: frigidus inde
Stat gladius; calet omne nocens a Caesare ferrum.
Nec Fortuna diu, rerum tot pondera vertens,
Abstulit ingentes, fato torrente, ruinas.
Ut primum toto diduxit cornua campo
Pompeianus eques, bellique per ultima fudit:
Sparsa per extremos levis armatura maniplos
Insequitur, saevasque manus immittit in hostem.
Illic, quaeque suo miscet gens proelia telo,
Romanus cunctis petitur cruor. Inde sagittae,
Inde faces et saxa volant, spatioque solutae
Aeris et calido liquefactae pondere glandes.
Tunc et Ituraei, Medique Arabesque, soluto
Arcu turba minax, nusquam rexere sagittas,
Sed petitur solus, qui campis imminet, aer:
Inde cadunt mortes. Sceleris sed crimine nullo
Externum maculant chalybem; stetit omne coactum
Circa pila nefas. Ferro subtexitur aether,
Noxque super campos telis conserta pependit.
Tum Caesar, metuens, ne frons sibi prima labaret
Incursu, tenet obliquas post signa cohortes:
Inque latus belli, qua se vagus hostis agebat,
Immittit subitum non motis cornibus agmen.
Immemores pugnae, nulloque pudore timendi
Praecipites fecere palam, civilia bella
Non bene barbaricis umquam commissa catervis.
Ut primum sonipes transfixus pectora ferro
In caput effusi calcavit membra regentis;
Omnis eques cessit campis, glomerataque pubes
In sua conversis praeceps ruit agmina frenis.
Perdidit inde modum caedes, ac nulla secuta est
Pugna, sed hinc iugulis, hinc ferro bella geruntur:
Nec valet haec acies tantum prosternere, quantum
Inde perire potest. Utinam, Pharsalia, campis
Sufficiat cruor iste tuis, quem barbara fundunt
Pectora; non alio mutentur sanguine fontes;
Hic numerus totos tibi vestiat ossibus agros:
Aut si Romano compleri sanguine mavis,
Istis parce precor: vivant Galataeque Syrique,
Cappadoces, Gallique, extremique orbis Iberi,
Armenii, Cilices: nam post civilia bella
Hic populus Romanus erit. Semel ortus in omnes
It timor, et fatis datus est pro Caesare cursus.
Ventum erat ad robur Magni, mediasque catervas.
Quod totos errore vago perfuderat agros,
Constitit hic bellum, fortunaque Caesaris haesit.
Illic non regum auxiliis collecta iuventus
Bella gerit, ferrumque manus movere rogatae:
Ille locus fratres habuit, locus ille parentes.
Hic furor, hic rabies, hic sunt tua crimina, Caesar.
Hanc fuge, mens, belli partem, tenebrisque relinque,
Nullaque tantorum discat me vate malorum,
Quam multum bellis liceat civilibus, aetas.
Hae potius pereant lacrimae, pereantque querelae.
Quidquid in hac acie gessisti, Roma, tacebo.

[¶1] 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
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 arms
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 seeks 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? 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. 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
'Mayst 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. One spurned upon the soil
His vitals as they trailed; one faced the foe
And as the sword struck deep into his throat
Breathed forth his life: another 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.

> Latin: Hic Caesar, rabies populis, stimulusque furorum,
Ne qua parte sui pereat scelus, agmina circum
It vagus, atque animis ignes flagrantibus addit:
Inspicit et gladios, qui toti sanguine manent,
Qui niteant primo tantum mucrone cruenti,
Quae presso tremat ense manus, quis languida tela,
Quis contenta ferat, quis praestet bella iubenti,
Quem pugnare iuvet, quis vultum cive peremto
Mutet: obit latis proiecta cadavera campis:
Vulnera multorum, totum fusura cruorem,
Opposita premit ipse manu. Quacumque vagatur,
Sanguineum veluti quatiens Bellone flagellum,
Bistonas aut Mavors agitans, si verbere saevo
Palladia stimulet turbatos aegide currus,
Nox ingens scelerum, et caedes oriuntur, et instar
Immensae vocis gemitus, et pondere lapsi
Pectoris arma sonant, confractique ensibus enses.
Ipse manu subicit gladios, ac tela ministrat,
Adversosque iubet ferro confundere vultus.
Promovet ipse acies: impellit terga suorum:
Verbere conversae cessantes excitat hastae.
In plebem vetat ire manus, monstratque senatum.
Scit, cruor imperii qui sit, quae viscera rerum:
Unde petat Romam, libertas ultima mundi
Quo steterit ferienda loco. Permixta secundo
Ordine nobilitas, venerandaque corpora ferro
Urgentur: caedunt Lepidos, caeduntque Metellos,
Corvinosque simul, Torquataque nomina, regum
Saepe duces, summosque hominum, te, Magne, remoto.
Illic, plebeia contectus casside vultus,
Ignotusque hosti, quod ferrum, Brute, tenebas!
O decus imperii, spes o suprema senatus,
Extremum tanti generis per saecula nomen.
Ne rue per medios nimium temerarius hostes,
Nec tibi fatales admoveris ante Philippos,
Thessalia periture tua. Nil proficis istic
Caesaris intentus iugulo: nondum attigit arcem
Iuris, et, humanum culmen, quo cuncta premuntur,
Egressus, meruit fatis tam nobile letum.
Vivat, et, ut Bruti procumbat victima, regnet.
Hic patriae perit omne decus: iacet aggere magno
Patricium campis non mixta plebe cadaver.
Mors tamen eminuit clarorum in strage virorum
Pugnacis Domiti, quem clades fata per omnes
Ducebant. Nusquam Magni Fortuna sine illo
Succubuit: victus toties a Caesare, salva
Libertate perit. Tunc mille in vulnera laetus
Labitur, ac venia gaudet caruisse secunda.
Viderat in crasso volventem sanguine membra
Caesar, et increpitans; Iam Magni deseris arma,
Successor Domiti; sine te iam bella geruntur.
Dixerat: ast illi suffecit pectora pulsans
Spiritus in vocem, morientiaque ora resolvit:
Non te funesta scelerum mercede potitum,
Sed dubium fati, Caesar, generoque minorem
Adspicens, Stygias Magno duce liber ad umbras
Et securus eo: te saevo Marte subactum,
Pompeioque graves poenas nobisque daturum,
Cum morior, sperare licet. Non plura locutum
Vita fugit, densaeque oculos pressere tenebrae.
Impendisse pudet lacrimas in funere mundi
Mortibus innumeris, ac singula fata sequentem
Quaerere, letiferum per cuius viscera vulnus
Exierit; quis fusa solo vitalia calcet;
Ore quis adverso demisso faucibus ense
Expulerit moriens animam; quis corruat ictu,
Quis steterit, dum membra cadunt: quis pectore tela
Transmittat, vel quos campis adfixerit hasta:
Quis cruor emissis perruperit aera venis,
Inque hostis cadat arma sui: quis pectora fratris
Caedat, et, ut notum possit spoliare cadaver,
Abscisum longe mittat caput: ora parentis
Quis laceret, nimiaque probet spectantibus ira,
Quem iugulat, non esse patrem. Mors nulla querela
Digna sua est, nullosque hominum lugere vacamus.
Non istas habuit pugnae Pharsalia partes,
Quas aliae clades: illic per fata virorum,
Per populos hic Roma perit: quae militia illic,
Mors hic gentis erat: sanguis ibi fluxit Achaeus,
Ponticus, Assyrius: cunctos haerere cruores
Romanus campisque vetat consistere torrens.
Maius ab hac acie, quam quod sua saecula ferrent,
Vulnus habent populi: plus est quam vita salusque,
Quod perit: in totum mundi prosternimur aevum:
Vincitur his gladiis omnis, quae serviet, aetas.
Proxima quid suboles, aut quid meruere nepotes
In regnum nasci? Pavidi num gessimus arma?
Teximus aut iugulos? Alieni poena timoris
In nostra cervice sedet. Post proelia natis
Si dominum, Fortuna, dabas, et bella dedisses.

[¶2] 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.
Then upon his steed,
Though fearing not the weapons at his back,
Pompeius fled, his mighty soul prepared
To meet his final doom. He saw thy field,
Pharsalia, tearless and without a groan;
For solemn grief and majesty of mien
Were in his face, as for the woes of Rome.
No pride in him the day of victory found,
Nor rout shall find despair; alike in days
When fickle Fortune triple triumph gave
And when she fled, her lord.
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 no man shall die. The fights to come
On Afric's mournful shore, by Pharos' stream
And fateful Munda, and the final scene
Of dire Pharsalia's battle are not thine.
Thy name no more shall stir the world to war,
But those great rivals biding with us yet,
Caesar and Liberty; and not for thee
When thou hadst fled the field, but for itself
The dying Senate still upheld the fight.
Find'st thou not solace thus to quit the field
Nor witness all the horrors of its close?
Look back upon the crimsoned ranks of war,
The rivers turbid with ensanguined stream;
Then pity thou thy kinsman. How shall he
Enter the city, who on such a field
Finds happiness? Whate'er in lands unknown
Thine exiled lot, whate'er the Pharian king
May place upon thee, trust thou in the gods;
Trust the long story of the favouring fates:
'Twere worse to conquer. Then forbid the tear,
The nation's grief, the weeping of mankind,
And let the world adore thee in defeat
As in thy triumphs. With unaltered gaze
Look down upon the kings, thy subjects still;
Look on the realms and cities which they hold,
Egypt and Libya, gifts from thee of yore;
And choose the country that befits thy death.
Larissa first was witness of thy fall,
Thy noble mien, as victor of the fates;
And loud in sorrow, yet with gifts of price
Fit for a conqueror flung back her gates
And poured her citizens forth. ' Our homes and fanes
To thee are open; would it were our lot
With thee to perish; of thy mighty name
Still much survives and conquered by thyself,
Thyself alone, still couldst thou to the war
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 still
Trod deep in piles of slaughter on the field,
His country's vitals, 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.

> Latin: Iam Magnus transisse deos Romanaque fata
Senserat infelix; tota vix clade coactus
Fortunam damnare suam. Stetit aggere campi
Eminus, unde omnes sparsas per Thessala rura
Adspiceret clades, quae bello obstante latebant.
Tot telis sua fata peti, tot corpora fusa,
Ac se tam multo pereuntem sanguine vidit.
Nec, sicut mos est miseris, trahere omnia secum
Mersa iuvat, gentesque suae miscere ruinae:
Ut Latiae post se vivat pars maxima turbae,
Sustinuit dignos etiam nunc credere votis
Coelicolas, volvitque sui solatia casus:
Parcite; ait, superi, cunctas prosternere gentes:
Stante potest mundo, Romaque superstite, Magnus
Esse miser. Si plura iuvant mea vulnera, coniux
Est mihi, sunt nati; dedimus tot pignora fatis.
Civiline parum est bello si meque meosque
Obruis? exiguae clades sumus, orbe remoto?
Omnia quid laceras, quid perdere cuncta laboras?
Iam nihil est, Fortuna, meum. Sic fatur: et arma
Signaque et adflictas omni iam parte catervas
Circuit, et revocat matura in fata ruentes,
Seque negat tanti. Nec deerat robur in enses
Ire duci, iuguloque pati vel pectore letum:
Sed timuit, strato miles ne corpore Magni
Non fugeret, supraque ducem procumberet orbis:
Caesaris aut oculis voluit subducere mortem.
Nequidquam. Infelix, socero spectare volenti
Praestandum est ubicumque capit. Sed tu quoque, coniux
Caussa fugae, vultusque tui: fatisque probatum est
Te praesente mori. Tunc Magnum concitus aufert
A bello sonipes, non tergo tela paventem,
Ingentesque animos extrema in fata ferentem.
Non gemitus, non fletus erat, salvaque verendus
Maiestate dolor, qualem te, Magne, decebat
Romanis praestare malis. Non impare vultu
Adspicis Emathiam: nec te videre superbum
Prospera bellorum, nec fractum adversa videbunt:
Quamque fuit laeto per tres infida triumphos,
Tam misero Fortuna minor. Iam pondere fati
Deposito securus abis: nunc tempora laeta
Respexisse vacat: spes numquam implenda recessit:
Quid fueris, nunc scire licet. Fuge proelia dire,
Ac testare deos, nullum, qui perstet in armis,
Iam tibi, Magne, mori: ceu flebilis Africa damni,
Et ceu Munda nocens, Pharioque a gurgite cladess,
Sic et Thessalicae post te pars maxima pugnae.
Non iam Pompeii nomen populare per orbem,
Nec studium belli: sed par, quod semper habemus,
Libertas et Caesar erunt: teque inde fugato
Ostendit moriens, sibi se pugnasse, senatus.
Nonne iuvat pulsum bellis cessisse, nec istud
Prospectasse nefas, spumantes caede catervas?
Respice turbatos incursu sanguinis amnes,
Et soceri miserere tui. Quo pectore Romam
Intrabit factus campis felicior istis?
Quidquid in ignotis solus regionibus exsul,
Quidquid sub Phario positus patiere tyranno;
Crede deis, longo fatorum crede favori,
Vincere peius erat. Prohibe lamenta sonare,
Flere veta populos: lacrimas luctusque remitte.
Tam mala Pompeii, quam prospera, mundus adoret.
Adspice securus vultu non supplice reges:
Adspice possessas urbes, donataque regna,
Aegyptum Libyamque: et terras elige morti.
Vidit prima tuae testis Larissa ruinae
Nobile, nec victum fatis caput. Omnibus illa
Civibus effudit totas per moenia vires:
Obvia, ceu laeto, praemittunt munera flentes:
Pandunt templa, domos: socios se cladibus optant.
Scilicet immenso superest ex nomine multum:
Teque minor solo, cunctas impellere gentes
Rursus in arma potes, rursusque in fata redire.
Sed, quid opus victo populis aut urbibus? inquit:
Victori praestate fidem. Tu, Caesar, in alto
Caedis adhuc cumulo patriae per viscera vadis:
At tibi iam populos donat gener. Avehit inde
Pompeium sonipes: gemitus lacrimaeque sequuntur;
Plurimaque in saevos populi convicia divos.
Nunc tibi vera fides quaesiti, Magne, favoris
Contigit, ac fructus. Felix se nescit amari.

[¶3] When Italian blood
Flowed deep enough upon the fatal field,
Caesar gave mercy to the meaner crowd
Whose deaths were vain. But that the hostile 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
Though worn by battle, wearied with the fray:
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 they had 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 soldier wretch; and there the murderer lay
Where yesternight his brother or his sire.
In maddened dreams the fury of the fight
Still raged, and in their sleep the guilty hand
Still wrought its deed, of blood, and restless gripped
The phantom sword-hilt. Thou hadst 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:
There troop the ghostly slain: a slaughtered sire
Tortures the breast of one; a brother's shape
There haunts his murderer's couch: each sees the form
Of him whose life he took. But all the dead
In Caesar's dreams were visioned. In such guise
Orestes saw the Furies, ere he fled
To purge his sin within the Scythian bounds;
Such fierce convulsions raged within the soul
Of Pentheus mad; and in Agave's 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 monstrous shapes
Scourged all his frame. 'Tis thus the wretch shall find
In guilty conscience punishment most dire:
He saw the Styx before his rival died:
And goblin horrors from the depths of Hell
Thronged on his sleep.
Yet when the radiant sun
Unveiled the butchery of Pharsalia's field
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
Thessalian bounds. 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 shouldst deny the pyre, still in that flame
When all shall crumble, 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 wouldst deny
The rites of burial to thousands slain,
Why flee thy field of triumph? Why desert
This reeking plain? Drink, Caesar, if thou canst
Of these ensanguined streams, and breathe the air
Of cursed Thessalia: 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 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, made Philippi pure.

> Latin: Caesar ut Hesperio vidit satis arva natare
Sanguine, parcendum ferro manibusque suorum
Iam ratus, ut viles animas perituraque frustra
Agmina permisit vitae. Sed castra fugatos
Ne revocent, pellatque quies nocturna pavorem,
Protinus hostili statuit succedere vallo,
Dum Fortuna calet, dum conficit omnia terror,
Non veritus, grave ne fessis ac Marte subactis
Hoc foret imperium. Non magno hortamine miles
In praedam ducendus erat: Victoria nobis
Plena, viri, dixit: superest pro sanguine merces,
Quam monstrare meum est: neque enim donare vocabo,
Quod sibi quisque dabit. Cunctis en plena metallis
Castra patent: raptum Hesperiis e gentibus aurum
Hic iacet, Eoasque premunt tentoria gazas.
Tot regum fortuna simul Magnique coacta
Exspectat dominos: propera praecedere, miles,
Quos sequeris: quascumque tuas Pharsalia fecit,
A victis rapiantur opes. Nec plura locutus,
Impulit amentes aurique cupidine caecos,
Ire super gladios supraque cadavera patrum,
Et caesos calcare duces. Quae fossa, quis agger
Sustineat pretium belli scelerumque petentes!
Scire volant, quanta fuerint mercede nocentes.
Invenere quidem spoliato plurima mundo
Bellorum in sumtus congestae pondera massae:
Sed non implevit cupientes omnia mentes.
Quidquid fodit Iber, quidquid Tagus extulit auri,
Quod legit dives summis Arimaspus arenis
Ut rapiant, parvo scelus hoc venisse putabunt.
Cum sibi Tarpeias victor desponderit arces,
Cum spe Romanae promiserit omnia praedae:
Decipitur, quod castra rapit. Capit impia plebes
Cespite patricio somnos: vacuumque cubile
Regibus infandus miles premit: inque parentum,
Inque toris fratrum posuerunt membra nocentes:
Quos agitat vesana quies, somnique furentes:
Thessalicam miseri versant in pectore pugnam.
Invigilat cunctis saevum scelus, armaque tota
Mente agitant, caputoque manus absente moventur,
Ingemuisse putes campos, terramque nocentem
Inspirasse animas, iniectumque aera totum
Manibus, et superam Stygia formidine noctem.
Exigit a miseris tristes victoria poenas,
Sibilaque et flammas infert sopor: umbra peremti
Civis adest: sua quemque premit terroris imago.
Ille senum vultus, iuvenum videt ille figuras:
Hunc agitant totis fraterna cadavera somnis:
Pectore in hoc pater est: omnes in Caesare manes.
Haud alios, nondum Scythica purgatus in ara,
Eumenidum vidit vultus Pelopeius Orestes:
Nec magis adtonitos animi sensere tumultus,
Cum fureret, Pentheus, aut cum desisset, Agave.
Hunc omnes gladii, quos aut Pharsalia vidit,
Aut ultrix visura dies, stringente senatu,
Illa nocte premunt: hunc infera monstra flagellant.
Heu quantum poenae misero mens conscia donat,
Quod Styga, quod manes, ingestaque Tartara somnis
Pompeio vivente videt! Tamen omnia passo
Postquam clara dies Pharsalica damna retexit,
Nulla loci facies revocat feralibus arvis
Haerentes oculos. Cernit propulsa cruore
Flumina, et excelsos cumulis aequantia colles
Corpora, depressos in tabem spectat acervos,
Et Magni numerat populos: epulisque paratur
Ille locus, vultus ex quo faciesque iacentum
Agnoscat. Iuvat Emathiam non cernere terram,
Et lustrare oculis campos sub clade latentes:
Fortunam superosque suos in sanguine cernit.
Ac ne laeta furens scelerum spectacula perdat,
Invidet igne rogi miseris, coeloque nocenti
Ingerit Emathiam. Non illum Poenus humator
Consulis, et Libyca succensae lampade Cannae
Compellunt, hominum ritus ut servet in hostes:
Sed meminit, nondum satiata caedibus ira,
Cives esse suos. Petimus non singula busta,
Discretosque rogos: unum da gentibus ignem:
Non interpositis urantur corpora flammis.
Aut, generi si poena iuvat, nemus exstrue Pindi:
Erige congestas Oetaeo robore silvas,
Thessalicam videat Pompeius ab aequore flammam.
Nil agis hac ira: tabesne cadavera solvat,
An rogus, haud refert: placido natura receptat
Cuncta sinu, finemque sui sibi corpora debent.
Hos, Caesar, populos si nunc non usserit ignis,
Uret cum terris, uret cum gurgite ponti.
Communis mundo superest rogus, ossibus astra
Mixturus. Quocumque tuam Fortuna vocabit,
Hae quoque eunt animae. Non altius ibis in auras,
Non meliore loco Stygia sub nocte iacebis.
Libera Fortunae mors est: capit omnia tellus
Quae genuit: coelo tegitur, qui non habet urnam.
Tu, cui dant poenas inhumato funere gentes,
Quid fugis hanc cladem? quid olentes deseris agros?
Has trahe, Caesar, aquas: hoc, si potes, utere coelo.
Sed tibi tabentes populi Pharsalica rura
Eripiunt, camposque tenent victore fugato.
Non solum Haemonii, funesta ad pabula belli
Bistonii venere lupi, tabemque cruentae
Caedis odorati Pholoen liquere leones.
Tunc ursi latebras, obscoeni tecta domosque
Deseruere canes, et quidquid nare sagaci
Aera non sanum motumque cadavere sensit.
Iamque diu volucres civilia castra secutae
Conveniunt. Vos, quae Nilo mutare soletis
Threicias hiemes, ad mollem serius austrum
Istis, aves. Numquam tanto se vulture coelum
Induit, aut plures presserunt aera pennae.
Omne nemus misit volucres, omnisque cruenta
Alite sanguineis stillavit roribus arbor.
Saepe super vultus victoris et impia signa
Aut cruor aut alto defluxit ab aethere tabes,
Membraque deiecit iam lassis unguibus ales.
Sic quoque non omnis populus pervenit ad ossa,
Inque feras discerptus abit: non intima curant
Viscera, nec totas avidae sorbere medullas:
Degustant artus. Latiae pars maxima turbae
Fastidita iacet; quam sol nimbique diesque
Longior Emathiis resolutam miscuit arvis.
Thessalia, infelix, quo tanto crimine, tellus,
Laesisti superos, ut te tot mortibus unam,
Tot scelerum fatis premerent? Quod sufficit aevum,
Immemor ut donet belli tibi damna vetustas?
Quae seges infecta surget non decolor herba?
Quo non Romanos violabis vomere manes?
Ante novae venient acies, scelerique secundo
Praestabis nondum siccos hoc sanguine campos.
Omnia maiorum vertamus busta licebit,
Et stantes tumulos, et qui radice vetusta
Effudere suas, victis compagibus, urnas:
Plus cinerum Haemoniae sulcis telluris aratur,
Pluraque ruricolis feriuntur dentibus ossa.
Nullus ab Emathio religasset litore funem
Navita, nec terram quisquam movisset arator,
Romani bustum populi: fugerentque coloni
Umbrarum campos: gregibus dumeta carerent:
Nullusque auderet pecori permittere pastor
Vellere surgentem de nostris ossibus herbam;
Ac, velut impatiens hominum vel solis iniqui
Limite vel glacie, nuda atque ignota iaceres,
Si non prima nefas belli, sed sola, tulisses.
O superi, liceat terras odisse nocentes.
Quid totum premitis, quid totum solvitis orbem?
Hesperiae clades, et flebilis unda Pachyni,
Et Mutina, et Leucas puros fecere Philippos.