With swift advanceThey seize the space that yet delays the fatesTill short the span dividing. Then they gazeFor one short moment where may fall the spear,What hand may deal their death, what monstrous taskSoon shall be theirs; and all in arms they see,In reach of stroke, their brothers and their siresWith front opposing; yet to yield their groundIt pleased them not. But all the host was dumbWith horror; cold upon each loving heart,Awe-struck, the life-blood pressed; and all men heldWith arms outstretched their javelins for a time,Poised yet unthrown. Now may th' avenging godsAllot thee, Crastinus, not such a deathAs all men else do suffer! In the tombMay'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 selfStill held his hand! Then from the clarions brokeThe strident summons, and the trumpets blaredResponsive signal. Upward to the vaultThe sound re-echoes where nor clouds may reachNor thunder penetrate; and Haemus' slopesReverberate to Pelion the din;Pindus re-echoes; OEta's lofty rocksGroan, and Pangaean cliffs, till at their rageBorne back from all the earth they shook for fear.Unnumbered darts they hurl, with prayers diverse;Some hope to wound: others, in secret, yearnFor hands still innocent. Chance rules supreme,And wayward Fortune upon whom she willsMakes fall the guilt. Yet, for the hatred bredBy civil war suffices spear nor lance,Urged on their flight afar: the hand must gripThe 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 spaceTo draw the blade, came rushing at the chargeFull on the central column Caesar's host,Mad for the battle. Man nor arms could stayThe crash of onset, and the furious swordClove through the stubborn panoply to the flesh,There only stayed. One army struck-their foesStruck not in answer; Magnus' swords were cold,But Caesar's reeked with slaughter and with guilt.Nor Fortune lingered, but decreed the doomWhich swept the ruins of a world away.Soon as withdrawn from all the spacious plain,Pompeius' horse was ranged upon the flanks;Passed through the outer files, the lighter armedOf all the nations joined the central strife,With divers weapons armed, but all for bloodOf Rome athirst: then blazing torches flew,Arrows and stones, and ponderous balls of leadMolten by speed of passage through the air.There Ituraean archers and the MedeWinged forth their shafts unaimed, till all the skyGrew dark with missiles hurled; and from the nightBrooding above, Death struck his victims down.Guiltless such blow, while all the crime was heapedUpon the Roman spear. In line obliqueBehind the standards Caesar in reserveHad placed some companies of foot, in fearThe foremost ranks might waver. These at his word,No trumpet sounding, break upon the ranksOf Magnus' horsemen where they rode at largeFlanking the battle. They, unshamed of fearAnd careless of the fray, when first a steedPierced through by javelin spurned with sounding hoofThe temples of his rider, turned the rein,And through their comrades spurring from the fieldIn panic, proved that not with warring RomeBarbarians may grapple. Then aroseImmeasurable carnage: here the sword,There stood the victim, and the victor's armWearied of slaughter. Oh, that to thy plains,Pharsalia, might suffice the crimson streamFrom hosts barbarian, nor other bloodPollute thy fountains' sources! these aloneShall clothe thy pastures with the bones of men!Or if thy fields must run with Roman bloodThen spare the nations who in times to comeMust be her peoples!Now the terror spreadThrough all the army, and the favouring fatesDecreed for Caesar's triumph: and the warCeased in the wider plain, though still ablazeWhere stood the chosen of Pompeius' force,Upholding yet the fight. Not here alliesBegged 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 stayMy Muse repelled: no poesy of mineShall tell the horrors of the final strife,Nor for the coming ages paint the deedsWhich civil war permits. Be all obscuredIn deepest darkness! Spare the useless tearAnd vain lament, and let the deeds that fellIn that last fight of Rome remain unsung.
Ut rapido cursu fati suprema morantemConsumsere locum: parva tellure diremti,Inde manus spectant, vultusque agnoscere quaerunt,Quo sua pila cadant, aut quae sibi fata minentur,Facturi quae monstra forent. Videre parentesFrontibus adversis, fraternaque cominus arma,Nec libuit mutare locum. Tamen omnia torporPectora constrinxit: gelidusque in viscera sanguisPerculsa pietate coit: totaeque cohortesPila 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 aerElisus 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 furorisExpavere 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 volantiExacta est? Odiis solus civilibus ensisSufficit, 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 agmenIn densos agitur cuneos: perque arma, per hostemQuaerit iter. Qua torta graves lorica catenasOpponit, tutoque latet sub tegmine pectus,Hac quoque perventum est ad viscera: totque per armaExtremum est, quod quisque ferit. Civilia bellaUna acies patitur, gerit altera: frigidus indeStat gladius; calet omne nocens a Caesare ferrum.Nec Fortuna diu, rerum tot pondera vertens,Abstulit ingentes, fato torrente, ruinas.Ut primum toto diduxit cornua campoPompeianus eques, bellique per ultima fudit:Sparsa per extremos levis armatura maniplosInsequitur, saevasque manus immittit in hostem.Illic, quaeque suo miscet gens proelia telo,Romanus cunctis petitur cruor. Inde sagittae,Inde faces et saxa volant, spatioque solutaeAeris et calido liquefactae pondere glandes.Tunc et Ituraei, Medique Arabesque, solutoArcu turba minax, nusquam rexere sagittas,Sed petitur solus, qui campis imminet, aer:Inde cadunt mortes. Sceleris sed crimine nulloExternum maculant chalybem; stetit omne coactumCirca pila nefas. Ferro subtexitur aether,Noxque super campos telis conserta pependit.Tum Caesar, metuens, ne frons sibi prima labaretIncursu, tenet obliquas post signa cohortes:Inque latus belli, qua se vagus hostis agebat,Immittit subitum non motis cornibus agmen.Immemores pugnae, nulloque pudore timendiPraecipites fecere palam, civilia bellaNon bene barbaricis umquam commissa catervis.Ut primum sonipes transfixus pectora ferroIn caput effusi calcavit membra regentis;Omnis eques cessit campis, glomerataque pubesIn sua conversis praeceps ruit agmina frenis.Perdidit inde modum caedes, ac nulla secuta estPugna, sed hinc iugulis, hinc ferro bella geruntur:Nec valet haec acies tantum prosternere, quantumInde perire potest. Utinam, Pharsalia, campisSufficiat cruor iste tuis, quem barbara funduntPectora; 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 bellaHic populus Romanus erit. Semel ortus in omnesIt 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 iuventusBella 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.
But Caesar adding fury to the breastsAlready flaming with the rage of war,That each might bear his portion of the guiltWhich stained the host, unflinching through the ranksPassed at his will. He looked upon the brands,These reddened only at the point, and thoseStreaming with blood and gory to the hilt:He marks the hand which trembling grasped the sword,Or held it idle, and the cheek that grewPale at the blow, and that which at his wordsGlowed with the joy of battle: midst the deadHe treads the plain and on each gaping woundPresses his hand to keep the life within.Thus Caesar passed: and where his footsteps fellAs when Bellona shakes her crimson lash,Or Mavors scourges on the Thracian maresWhen shunning the dread face on Pallas' shield,He drives his chariot, there arose a nightDark with huge slaughter and with crime, and groansAs of a voice immense, and sound of armsAs fell the wearer, and of sword on swordCrashed into fragments. With a ready handCaesar supplies the weapon and bids strikeFull at the visage; and with lance reversedUrges 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 namesOf 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 helmUnknown 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 fieldThy Thessaly. Not here shalt thou prevail'Gainst Caesar's life. Not yet hath he surpassedThe height of power and deserved a deathNoble at Brutus' hands-then let him live,Thy fated victim!There upon the fieldLay all the honour of Rome; no common streamMixed with the purple tide. And yet of allWho noble fell, one only now I sing,Thee, brave Domitius. Whene'er the dayWas adverse to the fortunes of thy chiefThine was the arm which vainly stayed the fight.Vanquished so oft by Caesar, now 'twas thineYet free to perish. By a thousand woundsCame welcome death, nor had thy conqueror powerAgain to pardon. Caesar stood and sawThe 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 thenHis standards helpless?' But the parting lifeStill faintly throbbed within Domitius' breast,Thus finding utterance: 'Yet thou hast not wonThy 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 tearMeet for each fate, or sing the wound that reftEach life away. One spurned upon the soilHis vitals as they trailed; one faced the foeAnd as the sword struck deep into his throatBreathed forth his life: another fell to earthProne 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 veinsSpouted the life-blood, till the foeman's armsWere crimsoned. One his brother slew, nor daredTo spoil the corse, till severed from the neckHe flung the head afar. Another dashedFull in his father's teeth the fatal sword,By murderous frenzy striving to disproveHis kinship with the slain. Yet for each deathWe find no separate dirge, nor weep for menWhen peoples fell. Thus, Rome, thy doom was wroughtAt dread Pharsalus. Not, as in other fields,By soldiers slain, or captains; here were sweptWhole nations to the death; Assyria here,Achaia, Pontus; and the blood of RomeGushing in torrents forth, forbade the restTo stagnate on the plain. Nor life was reft,Nor safety only then; but reeled the worldAnd all her manifold peoples at the blowIn that day's battle dealt; nor only thenFelt, but in all the times that were to come.Those swords gave servitude to every ageThat shall be slavish; by our sires was shapedFor us our destiny, the despot yoke.Yet have we trembled not, nor feared to bareOur throats to slaughter, nor to face the foe:We bear the penalty for others' shame,Such be our doom; yet, Fortune, sharing notIn that last battle, 'twas our right to strikeOne blow for freedom ere we served our lord.
Hic Caesar, rabies populis, stimulusque furorum,Ne qua parte sui pereat scelus, agmina circumIt 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 peremtoMutet: 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 saevoPalladia stimulet turbatos aegide currus,Nox ingens scelerum, et caedes oriuntur, et instarImmensae vocis gemitus, et pondere lapsiPectoris 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 mundiQuo steterit ferienda loco. Permixta secundoOrdine nobilitas, venerandaque corpora ferroUrgentur: caedunt Lepidos, caeduntque Metellos,Corvinosque simul, Torquataque nomina, regumSaepe 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 isticCaesaris intentus iugulo: nondum attigit arcemIuris, 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 magnoPatricium campis non mixta plebe cadaver.Mors tamen eminuit clarorum in strage virorumPugnacis Domiti, quem clades fata per omnesDucebant. Nusquam Magni Fortuna sine illoSuccubuit: victus toties a Caesare, salvaLibertate perit. Tunc mille in vulnera laetusLabitur, ac venia gaudet caruisse secunda.Viderat in crasso volventem sanguine membraCaesar, et increpitans; Iam Magni deseris arma,Successor Domiti; sine te iam bella geruntur.Dixerat: ast illi suffecit pectora pulsansSpiritus in vocem, morientiaque ora resolvit:Non te funesta scelerum mercede potitum,Sed dubium fati, Caesar, generoque minoremAdspicens, Stygias Magno duce liber ad umbrasEt securus eo: te saevo Marte subactum,Pompeioque graves poenas nobisque daturum,Cum morior, sperare licet. Non plura locutumVita fugit, densaeque oculos pressere tenebrae.Impendisse pudet lacrimas in funere mundiMortibus innumeris, ac singula fata sequentemQuaerere, letiferum per cuius viscera vulnusExierit; quis fusa solo vitalia calcet;Ore quis adverso demisso faucibus enseExpulerit moriens animam; quis corruat ictu,Quis steterit, dum membra cadunt: quis pectore telaTransmittat, vel quos campis adfixerit hasta:Quis cruor emissis perruperit aera venis,Inque hostis cadat arma sui: quis pectora fratrisCaedat, et, ut notum possit spoliare cadaver,Abscisum longe mittat caput: ora parentisQuis laceret, nimiaque probet spectantibus ira,Quem iugulat, non esse patrem. Mors nulla querelaDigna 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 cruoresRomanus 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 nepotesIn regnum nasci? Pavidi num gessimus arma?Teximus aut iugulos? Alieni poena timorisIn nostra cervice sedet. Post proelia natisSi dominum, Fortuna, dabas, et bella dedisses.
Now saw Pompeius, grieving, that the godsHad left his side, and knew the fates of RomePassed from his governance; yet all the bloodThat filled the field scarce brought him to confessHis fortunes fled. A little hill he soughtWhence to descry the battle raging stillUpon the plain, which when he nearer stoodThe warring ranks concealed. Thence did the chiefGaze on unnumbered swords that flashed in airAnd sought his ruin; and the tide of bloodIn which his host had perished. Yet not as thoseWho, prostrate fallen, would drag nations downTo share their evil fate, Pompeius did.Still were the gods thought worthy of his prayersTo give him solace, in that after himMight 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 needMore bloodshed, here on me, my wife, and sons'Wreak out your vengeance-pledges to the fatesSuch have we given. Too little for the warIs 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 recalledHis vanquished host that rushed on fate declared.Not for his sake such carnage should be wrought.So thought Pompeius; nor the foeman's swordHe feared, nor death; but lest upon his fallTo quit their chief his soldiers might refuse,And o'er his prostrate corpse a world in armsMight find its ruin: or perchance he wishedFrom Caesar's eager eyes to veil his death.In vain, unhappy! for the fates decreeHe 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 dieWhen thou art present.Then upon his steed,Though fearing not the weapons at his back,Pompeius fled, his mighty soul preparedTo meet his final doom. He saw thy field,Pharsalia, tearless and without a groan;For solemn grief and majesty of mienWere 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 daysWhen fickle Fortune triple triumph gaveAnd when she fled, her lord.The burden laidOf thine impending fate, thou partest freeTo muse upon the happy days of yore.Hope now has fled; but in the fleeting pastHow wast thou great! Seek thou the wars no more,And call the gods to witness that for theeHenceforth no man shall die. The fights to comeOn Afric's mournful shore, by Pharos' streamAnd fateful Munda, and the final sceneOf 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 theeWhen thou hadst fled the field, but for itselfThe dying Senate still upheld the fight.Find'st thou not solace thus to quit the fieldNor 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 heEnter the city, who on such a fieldFinds happiness? Whate'er in lands unknownThine exiled lot, whate'er the Pharian kingMay 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 defeatAs in thy triumphs. With unaltered gazeLook 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 priceFit for a conqueror flung back her gatesAnd poured her citizens forth. ' Our homes and fanesTo thee are open; would it were our lotWith thee to perish; of thy mighty nameStill much survives and conquered by thyself,Thyself alone, still couldst thou to the warAll nations call and challenge fate again.'But thus he spake: 'To cities nor to menAvails the conquered aught: then pledge your faithTo him who has the victory.' Caesar stillTrod deep in piles of slaughter on the field,His country's vitals, while his daughter's spouseThus gave him kingdoms. But Pompeius fled'Mid sobs and groans and blaming of the godsFor this their fierce commandment; and he fledFull of the fruits and knowledge of the loveThe peoples bore him, which he knew not hisIn times of happiness.
Iam Magnus transisse deos Romanaque fataSenserat infelix; tota vix clade coactusFortunam damnare suam. Stetit aggere campiEminus, unde omnes sparsas per Thessala ruraAdspiceret 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 secumMersa iuvat, gentesque suae miscere ruinae:Ut Latiae post se vivat pars maxima turbae,Sustinuit dignos etiam nunc credere votisCoelicolas, volvitque sui solatia casus:Parcite; ait, superi, cunctas prosternere gentes:Stante potest mundo, Romaque superstite, MagnusEsse miser. Si plura iuvant mea vulnera, coniuxEst mihi, sunt nati; dedimus tot pignora fatis.Civiline parum est bello si meque meosqueObruis? exiguae clades sumus, orbe remoto?Omnia quid laceras, quid perdere cuncta laboras?Iam nihil est, Fortuna, meum. Sic fatur: et armaSignaque et adflictas omni iam parte catervasCircuit, et revocat matura in fata ruentes,Seque negat tanti. Nec deerat robur in ensesIre duci, iuguloque pati vel pectore letum:Sed timuit, strato miles ne corpore MagniNon fugeret, supraque ducem procumberet orbis:Caesaris aut oculis voluit subducere mortem.Nequidquam. Infelix, socero spectare volentiPraestandum est ubicumque capit. Sed tu quoque, coniuxCaussa fugae, vultusque tui: fatisque probatum estTe praesente mori. Tunc Magnum concitus aufertA bello sonipes, non tergo tela paventem,Ingentesque animos extrema in fata ferentem.Non gemitus, non fletus erat, salvaque verendusMaiestate dolor, qualem te, Magne, decebatRomanis praestare malis. Non impare vultuAdspicis Emathiam: nec te videre superbumProspera bellorum, nec fractum adversa videbunt:Quamque fuit laeto per tres infida triumphos,Tam misero Fortuna minor. Iam pondere fatiDeposito securus abis: nunc tempora laetaRespexisse 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 fugatoOstendit moriens, sibi se pugnasse, senatus.Nonne iuvat pulsum bellis cessisse, nec istudProspectasse nefas, spumantes caede catervas?Respice turbatos incursu sanguinis amnes,Et soceri miserere tui. Quo pectore RomamIntrabit 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 ruinaeNobile, nec victum fatis caput. Omnibus illaCivibus 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 gentesRursus in arma potes, rursusque in fata redire.Sed, quid opus victo populis aut urbibus? inquit:Victori praestate fidem. Tu, Caesar, in altoCaedis adhuc cumulo patriae per viscera vadis:At tibi iam populos donat gener. Avehit indePompeium sonipes: gemitus lacrimaeque sequuntur;Plurimaque in saevos populi convicia divos.Nunc tibi vera fides quaesiti, Magne, favorisContigit, ac fructus. Felix se nescit amari.
When Italian bloodFlowed deep enough upon the fatal field,Caesar gave mercy to the meaner crowdWhose deaths were vain. But that the hostile campMight not recall the foe, nor calm of nightBanish 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 spoilThough worn by battle, wearied with the fray:Soldiers,' he said, ' the victory is ours,Full and triumphant: there doth lie the prizeWhich you have won, not Caesar; at your feetBehold 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 kingsAnd of Pompeius here awaits its lords.Haste, soldiers, and outstrip the flying foe;E'en now the vanquished of Pharsalia's fieldAnticipate 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 rushedTo seize the prize for wickedness and warAnd learn the price of guilt? And though they foundIn ponderous masses heaped for need of warThe trophies of a world, yet were their mindsUnsatisfied, that asked for all. Whate'erIberian mines or Tagus bring to day,Or Arimaspians from golden sandsMay gather, had they seized; still they had thoughtTheir guilt too cheaply sold. When pledged to themWas the Tarpeian rock, for victory won,And all the spoils of Rome, by Caesar's word,Shall camps suffice them? Then plebeian limbsOn senators' turf took rest, on kingly couchThe soldier wretch; and there the murderer layWhere yesternight his brother or his sire.In maddened dreams the fury of the fightStill raged, and in their sleep the guilty handStill wrought its deed, of blood, and restless grippedThe phantom sword-hilt. Thou hadst said that groansIssued from all the plain, that parted soulsHad breathed a life into the guilty soil,That earthly darkness teemed with gibbering ghostsAnd Stygian terrors. Victory foully wonThus claimed its punishment. The slumbering senseAlready heard the hiss of vengeful flames:There troop the ghostly slain: a slaughtered sireTortures the breast of one; a brother's shapeThere haunts his murderer's couch: each sees the formOf him whose life he took. But all the deadIn Caesar's dreams were visioned. In such guiseOrestes saw the Furies, ere he fledTo purge his sin within the Scythian bounds;Such fierce convulsions raged within the soulOf Pentheus mad; and in Agave's mindWhen she had known her son. Before his gazeFlashed all the javelins which Pharsalia saw,Or that avenging day when drew their bladesThe Roman senators; and monstrous shapesScourged all his frame. 'Tis thus the wretch shall findIn guilty conscience punishment most dire:He saw the Styx before his rival died:And goblin horrors from the depths of HellThronged on his sleep.Yet when the radiant sunUnveiled the butchery of Pharsalia's fieldHe shrank not from its horror, nor withdrewHis feasting gaze. There rolled the streams in floodWith crimson carnage; there a seething heapRose shrouding all the plain, now in decaySlow settling down; there numbered he the hostOf Magnus slain; and for the morn's repastThat spot he chose whence he might watch the dead,And feast his eyes upon Emathia's fieldConcealed by corpses; of the bloody sightInsatiate, 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 fightLaid in the earth the Roman consul dead,To find fit burial for his fallen foes;For these were all his countrymen, nor yetHis ire by blood appeased. Yet ask we notFor separate pyres or sepulchres apartWherein to lay the ashes of the fallen:Burn in one holocaust the nations slain;Or should it please thy soul to torture moreThy kinsman, pile on high from OEta's slopesAnd Pindus' top the woods: thus shall he seeWhile fugitive on the deep the blaze that marksThessalian bounds. Yet by this idle rageNought dost thou profit; for these corporal framesBearing innate from birth the certain germsOf dissolution, whether by decayOr fire consumed, shall fall into the lapOf all-embracing nature. Thus if nowThou shouldst deny the pyre, still in that flameWhen all shall crumble, earth and rolling seasAnd stars commingled with the bones of men,These too shall perish. Where thy soul shall goThese shall companion thee; no higher flightIn airy realms is thine, nor smoother couchBeneath the Stygian darkness; for the deadNo fortune favours, and our Mother EarthAll that is born from her receives again,And he whose bones no tomb or urn protectsYet sleeps beneath the canopy of heaven.And thou, proud conqueror, who wouldst denyThe rites of burial to thousands slain,Why flee thy field of triumph? Why desertThis reeking plain? Drink, Caesar, if thou canstOf these ensanguined streams, and breathe the airOf cursed Thessalia: but from thy graspThe earth is ravished, and th' unburied host,Routing their victor, hold Pharsalia's field.Then to the ghastly harvest of the warCame all the beasts of earth whose facile senseOf odour tracks the bodies of the slain.Sped from his northern home the Thracian wolf;Bears left their dens and lions from afarScenting the carnage; dogs obscene and foulTheir homes deserted: all the air was fullOf gathering fowl, who in their flight had longPursued the armies. Cranes who yearly changeThe frosts of Thracia for the banks of Nile,This year delayed their voyage. As ne'er beforeThe air grew dark with vultures' hovering wings,Innumerable, for every grove and woodSent forth its denizens; on every treeDripped from their crimsoned beaks a gory dew.Oft on the conquerors and their impious armsOr purple rain of blood, or mouldering fleshFell from the lofty heaven; or limbs of menFrom weary talons dropped. Yet even soThe peoples passed not all into the mawOf ravening beast or fowl; the inmost fleshScarce did they touch, nor limbs-thus lay the deadScorned by the spoiler; and the Roman hostBy sun and length of days, and rain from heaven,At length was mingled with Emathia's plain.Ill-starred Thessalia! By what hateful crimeDidst thou offend that thus on thee aloneWas laid such carnage? By what length of yearsShalt thou be cleansed from the curse of war?When shall the harvest of thy fields ariseFree from their purple stain? And when the shareCease to upturn the slaughtered hosts of Rome?First shall the battle onset sound again,Again shall flow upon thy fated earthA crimson torrent. Thus may be o'erthrownOur sires' memorials; those erected last,Or those which pierced by ancient roots have spreadThrough broken stones their sacred urns abroad.Thus shall the ploughman of Haemonia gazeOn more abundant ashes, and the rakePass o'er more frequent bones. Wert, Thracia, thou,Our only battlefield, no sailor's handUpon thy shore should make his cable fast;No spade should turn, the husbandman should fleeThy fields, the resting-place of Roman dead;No lowing kine should graze, nor shepherd dareTo leave his fleecy charge to browse at willOn 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 allBe blameless found.'Twas thus that Munda's fightAnd blood of Mutina, and Leucas' cape,And sad Pachynus, made Philippi pure.
Caesar ut Hesperio vidit satis arva natareSanguine, parcendum ferro manibusque suorumIam ratus, ut viles animas perituraque frustraAgmina permisit vitae. Sed castra fugatosNe revocent, pellatque quies nocturna pavorem,Protinus hostili statuit succedere vallo,Dum Fortuna calet, dum conficit omnia terror,Non veritus, grave ne fessis ac Marte subactisHoc foret imperium. Non magno hortamine milesIn praedam ducendus erat: Victoria nobisPlena, viri, dixit: superest pro sanguine merces,Quam monstrare meum est: neque enim donare vocabo,Quod sibi quisque dabit. Cunctis en plena metallisCastra patent: raptum Hesperiis e gentibus aurumHic iacet, Eoasque premunt tentoria gazas.Tot regum fortuna simul Magnique coactaExspectat 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 aggerSustineat pretium belli scelerumque petentes!Scire volant, quanta fuerint mercede nocentes.Invenere quidem spoliato plurima mundoBellorum in sumtus congestae pondera massae:Sed non implevit cupientes omnia mentes.Quidquid fodit Iber, quidquid Tagus extulit auri,Quod legit dives summis Arimaspus arenisUt rapiant, parvo scelus hoc venisse putabunt.Cum sibi Tarpeias victor desponderit arces,Cum spe Romanae promiserit omnia praedae:Decipitur, quod castra rapit. Capit impia plebesCespite patricio somnos: vacuumque cubileRegibus 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 totaMente agitant, caputoque manus absente moventur,Ingemuisse putes campos, terramque nocentemInspirasse animas, iniectumque aera totumManibus, et superam Stygia formidine noctem.Exigit a miseris tristes victoria poenas,Sibilaque et flammas infert sopor: umbra peremtiCivis 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 somnisPompeio vivente videt! Tamen omnia passoPostquam clara dies Pharsalica damna retexit,Nulla loci facies revocat feralibus arvisHaerentes oculos. Cernit propulsa cruoreFlumina, et excelsos cumulis aequantia collesCorpora, depressos in tabem spectat acervos,Et Magni numerat populos: epulisque paraturIlle locus, vultus ex quo faciesque iacentumAgnoscat. 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 nocentiIngerit Emathiam. Non illum Poenus humatorConsulis, et Libyca succensae lampade CannaeCompellunt, 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 receptatCuncta 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 astraMixturus. 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 tellusQuae 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 ruraEripiunt, camposque tenent victore fugato.Non solum Haemonii, funesta ad pabula belliBistonii venere lupi, tabemque cruentaeCaedis odorati Pholoen liquere leones.Tunc ursi latebras, obscoeni tecta domosqueDeseruere canes, et quidquid nare sagaciAera non sanum motumque cadavere sensit.Iamque diu volucres civilia castra secutaeConveniunt. Vos, quae Nilo mutare soletisThreicias hiemes, ad mollem serius austrumIstis, aves. Numquam tanto se vulture coelumInduit, aut plures presserunt aera pennae.Omne nemus misit volucres, omnisque cruentaAlite sanguineis stillavit roribus arbor.Saepe super vultus victoris et impia signaAut 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 curantViscera, nec totas avidae sorbere medullas:Degustant artus. Latiae pars maxima turbaeFastidita iacet; quam sol nimbique diesqueLongior 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 secundoPraestabis nondum siccos hoc sanguine campos.Omnia maiorum vertamus busta licebit,Et stantes tumulos, et qui radice vetustaEffudere suas, victis compagibus, urnas:Plus cinerum Haemoniae sulcis telluris aratur,Pluraque ruricolis feriuntur dentibus ossa.Nullus ab Emathio religasset litore funemNavita, nec terram quisquam movisset arator,Romani bustum populi: fugerentque coloniUmbrarum campos: gregibus dumeta carerent:Nullusque auderet pecori permittere pastorVellere surgentem de nostris ossibus herbam;Ac, velut impatiens hominum vel solis iniquiLimite 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.