Book II
The Flight of Pompeius
Thus was made plain the anger of the gods;The universe gave signs Nature reversedIn monstrous tumult fraught with prodigiesHer laws, and prescient spake the coming guilt.
How seemed it just to thee, Olympus’ king,That suffering mortals at thy doom should knowBy omens dire the massacre to come?Or did the primal parent of the worldWhen first the flames gave way and yielding leftMatter unformed to his subduing hand,And realms unbalanced, fix by stern decreeUnalterable laws to bind the whole(Himself, too, bound by law), so that for ayeAll Nature moves within its fated bounds?Or, is Chance sovereign over all, and weThe sport of Fortune and her turning wheel?Whate’er be truth, keep thou the future veiledFrom mortal vision, and amid their fearsMay men still hope.
Thus known how great the woesThe world should suffer, from the truth divine,A solemn fast was called, the courts were closed,All men in private garb; no purple hemAdorned the togas of the chiefs of Rome;No plaints were uttered, and a voiceless griefLay deep in every bosom: as when deathKnocks at some door but enters not as yet,Before the mother calls the name aloudOr bids her grieving maidens beat the breast,While still she marks the glazing eye, and soothesThe stiffening limbs and gazes on the face,In nameless dread, not sorrow, and in aweOf death approaching: and with mind distraughtClings to the dying in a last embrace.
The matrons laid aside their wonted garb:Crowds filled the temples—on the unpitying stonesSome dashed their bosoms; others bathed with tearsThe statues of the gods; some tore their hairUpon the holy threshold, and with shrieksAnd vows unceasing called upon the namesOf those whom mortals supplicate. Nor allLay in the Thunderer’s fane: at every shrineSome prayers are offered which refused shall bringReproach on heaven. One whose livid armsWere dark with blows, whose cheeks with tears bedewedAnd riven, cried, “Beat, mothers, beat the breast,Tear now the lock; while doubtful in the scalesStill fortune hangs, nor yet the fight is won,You still may grieve: when either wins rejoice.”Thus sorrow stirs itself.
Meanwhile the menSeeking the camp and setting forth to war,Address the cruel gods in just complaint.“Happy the youths who born in Punic daysOn Cannae’s uplands or by Trebia’s streamFought and were slain! What wretched lot is ours!No peace we ask for: let the nations rage;Rouse fiercest cities! may the world find armsTo wage a war with Rome: let Parthian hostsRush forth from Susa; Scythian Ister curbNo more the Massagete: unconquered RhineLet loose from furthest North her fair-haired tribes:Elbe, pour thy Suevians forth! Let us be foesOf all the peoples. May the Getan pressHere, and the Dacian there; Pompeius meetThe Eastern archers, Caesar in the WestConfront th’ Iberian. Leave to Rome no handTo raise against herself in civil strife.Or, if Italia by the gods be doomed,Let all the sky, fierce Parent, be dissolvedAnd falling on the earth in flaming bolts,Their hands still bloodless, strike both leaders down,With both their hosts! Why plunge in novel crimeTo settle which of them shall rule in Rome?Scarce were it worth the price of civil warTo hinder either.” Thus the patriot voiceStill found an utterance, soon to speak no more.
Meantime, the aged fathers o’er their fatesIn anguish grieved, detesting life prolongedThat brought with it another civil war.And thus spake one, to justify his fears:“No other deeds the fates laid up in storeWhen Marius (1), victor over Teuton hosts,Afric’s high conqueror, cast out from Rome,Lay hid in marshy ooze, at thy behest,O Fortune! by the yielding soil concealedAnd waving rushes; but ere long the chainsOf prison wore his weak and aged frame,And lengthened squalor: thus he paid for crimeHis punishment beforehand; doomed to dieConsul in triumph over wasted Rome.Death oft refused him; and the very foe,In act to murder, shuddered in the strokeAnd dropped the weapon from his nerveless hand.For through the prison gloom a flame of lightHe saw; the deities of crime abhorred;The Marius to come. A voice proclaimedMysterious, ‘Hold! the fates permit thee notThat neck to sever. Many a death he owesTo time’s predestined laws ere his shall come;Cease from thy madness. If ye seek revengeFor all the blood shed by your slaughtered tribes toLet this man, Cimbrians, live out all his days.’Not as their darling did the gods protectThe man of blood, but for his ruthless handFit to prepare that sacrifice of goreWhich fate demanded. By the sea’s despiteBorne to our foes, Jugurtha’s wasted realmHe saw, now conquered; there in squalid hutsAwhile he lay, and trod the hostile dustOf Carthage, and his ruin matched with hers:Each from the other’s fate some solace drew,And prostrate, pardoned heaven. On Libyan soil (2)Fresh fury gathering (3), next, when Fortune smiledThe prisons he threw wide and freed the slaves.Forth rushed the murderous bands, their melted chainsForged into weapons for his ruffian needs.No charge he gave to mere recruits in guiltWho brought not to the camp some proof of crime.How dread that day when conquering Marius seizedThe city’s ramparts! with what fated speedDeath strode upon his victims! plebs alikeAnd nobles perished; far and near the swordStruck at his pleasure, till the temple floorsRan wet with slaughter and the crimson streamBefouled with slippery gore the holy walls.No age found pity: men of failing years,Just tottering to the grave, were hurled to death;From infants, in their being’s earliest dawn (4),The growing life was severed. For what crime?’Twas cause enough for death that they could die.The fury grew: soon ’twas a sluggard’s partTo seek the guilty: hundreds died to swellThe tale of victims. Shamed by empty hands,The bloodstained conqueror snatched a reeking headFrom neck unknown. One way of life remained,To kiss with shuddering lips the red right hand (5).Degenerate people! Had ye hearts of men,Though ye were threatened by a thousand swords,Far rather death than centuries of lifeBought at such price; much more that breathing spaceTill Sulla comes again (6). But time would failIn weeping for the deaths of all who fell.Encircled by innumerable bandsFell Baebius, his limbs asunder torn,His vitals dragged abroad. Antonius too,Prophet of ill, whose hoary head (7) was placed,Dripping with blood, upon the festal board.There headless fell the Crassi; mangled frames’Neath Fimbria’s falchion: and the prison cellsWere wet with tribunes’ blood. Hard by the faneWhere dwells the goddess and the sacred fire,Fell aged Scaevola, though that gory hand (8)Had spared him, but the feeble tide of bloodStill left the flame alive upon the hearth.That selfsame year the seventh time restored (9)The Consul’s rods; that year to Marius broughtThe end of life, when he at Fortune’s handsAll ills had suffered; all her goods enjoyed.
“And what of those who at the Sacriport (10)And Colline gate were slain, then, when the ruleOf Earth and all her nations almost leftThis city for another, and the chiefsWho led the Samnite hoped that Rome might bleedMore than at Caudium’s Forks she bled of old?Then came great Sulla to avenge the dead,And all the blood still left within her frameDrew from the city; for the surgeon knifeWhich shore the cancerous limbs cut in too deep,And shed the life stream from still healthy veins.True that the guilty fell, but not beforeAll else had perished. Hatred had free courseAnd anger reigned unbridled by the law.The victor’s voice spake once; but each man struckJust as he wished or willed. The fatal steelUrged by the servant laid the master low.Sons dripped with gore of sires; and brothers foughtFor the foul trophy of a father slain,Or slew each other for the price of blood.Men sought the tombs and, mingling with the dead,Hoped for escape; the wild beasts’ dens were full.One strangled died; another from the heightFell headlong down upon the unpitying earth,And from the encrimsoned victor snatched his death:One built his funeral pyre and oped his veins,And sealed the furnace ere his blood was gone.Borne through the trembling town the leaders’ headsWere piled in middle forum: hence men knewOf murders else unpublished. Not on gatesOf Diomedes (11), tyrant king of Thrace,Nor of Antaeus, Libya’s giant brood,Were hung such horrors; nor in Pisa’s hallWere seen and wept for when the suitors died.Decay had touched the features of the slainWhen round the mouldering heap, with trembling stepsThe grief-struck parents sought and stole their dead.I, too, the body of my brother slainThought to remove, my victim to the peaceWhich Sulla made, and place his loved remainsOn the forbidden pyre. The head I found,But not the butchered corse.
“Why now renewThe tale of Catulus’s shade appeased?And those dread tortures which the living frameOf Marius (12) suffered at the tomb of himWho haply wished them not? Pierced, mangled, torn—Nor speech nor grasp was left: his every limbMaimed, hacked and riven; yet the fatal blowThe murderers with savage purpose spared.‘Twere scarce believed that one poor mortal frameSuch agonies could bear e’er death should come.Thus crushed beneath some ruin lie the dead;Thus shapeless from the deep are borne the drowned.Why spoil delight by mutilating thus,The head of Marius? To please Sulla’s heartThat mangled visage must be known to all.Fortune, high goddess of Praeneste’s fane,Saw all her townsmen hurried to their deathsIn one fell instant. All the hope of Rome,The flower of Latium, stained with blood the fieldWhere once the peaceful tribes their votes declared.Famine and Sword, the raging sky and sea,And Earth upheaved, have laid such numbers low:But ne’er one man’s revenge. Between the slainAnd living victims there was space no more,Death thus let slip, to deal the fatal blow.Hardly when struck they fell; the severed headScarce toppled from the shoulders; but the slainBlent in a weighty pile of massacrePressed out the life and helped the murderer’s arm.Secure from stain upon his lofty throne,Unshuddering sat the author of the whole,Nor feared that at his word such thousands fell.At length the Tuscan flood received the deadThe first upon his waves; the last on thoseThat lay beneath them; vessels in their courseWere stayed, and while the lower current flowedStill to the sea, the upper stood on highDammed back by carnage. Through the streets meanwhileIn headlong torrents ran a tide of blood,Which furrowing its path through town and fieldForced the slow river on. But now his banksNo longer held him, and the dead were thrownBack on the fields above. With labour hugeAt length he struggled to his goal and stretchedIn crimson streak across the Tuscan Sea.
“For deeds like these, shall Sulla now be styled‘Darling of Fortune’, ‘Saviour of the State’?For these, a tomb in middle field of MarsRecord his fame? Like horrors now returnFor us to suffer; and the civil warThus shall be waged again and thus shall end.Yet worse disasters may our fears suggest,For now with greater carnage of mankindThe rival hosts in weightier battle meet.To exiled Marius, successful strifeWas Rome regained; triumphant Sulla knewNo greater joy than on his hated foesTo wreak his vengeance with unsparing sword.But these more powerful rivals Fortune callsTo worse ambitions; nor would either chiefFor such reward as Sulla’s wage the war.”Thus, mindful of his youth, the aged manWept for the past, but feared the coming days.
Such terrors found in haughty Brutus’ breastNo home. When others sat them down to fearHe did not so, but in the dewy nightWhen the great wain was turning round the poleHe sought his kinsman Cato’s humble home.Him sleepless did he find, not for himselfFearing, but pondering the fates of Rome,And deep in public cares. And thus he spake:“O thou in whom that virtue, which of yoreTook flight from earth, now finds its only home,Outcast to all besides, but safe with thee:Vouchsafe thy counsel to my wavering soulAnd make my weakness strength. While Caesar some,Pompeius others, follow in the fight,Cato is Brutus’ guide. Art thou for peace,Holding thy footsteps in a tottering worldUnshaken? Or wilt thou with the leaders’ crimesAnd with the people’s fury take thy part,And by thy presence purge the war of guilt?In impious battles men unsheath the sword;But each by cause impelled: the household crime;Laws feared in peace; want by the sword removed;And broken credit, that its ruin hidesIn general ruin. Drawn by hope of gain,And not by thirst for blood, they seek the camp.Shall Cato for war’s sake make war alone?What profits it through all these wicked yearsThat thou hast lived untainted? This were allThy meed of virtue, that the wars which findGuilt in all else, shall make thee guilty too.Ye gods, permit not that this fatal strifeShould stir those hands to action! When the cloudsOf flying javelins hiss upon the air,Let not a dart be thine; nor spent in vainSuch virtue! All the fury of the warShall launch itself on thee, for who, when faintAnd wounded, would not rush upon thy sword,Take thence his death, and make the murder thine?Do thou live on thy peaceful life apartAs on their paths the stars unshaken roll.The lower air that verges on the earthGives flame and fury to the levin bolt;The deeps below the world engulph the windsAnd tracts of flaming fire. By Jove’s decreeOlympus rears his summit o’er the clouds:In lowlier valleys storms and winds contend,But peace eternal reigns upon the heights.What joy for Caesar, if the tidings comeThat such a citizen has joined the war?Glad would he see thee e’en in Magnus’ tents;For Cato’s conduct shall approve his own.Pompeius, with the Consul in his ranks,And half the Senate and the other chiefs,Vexes my spirit; and should Cato tooBend to a master’s yoke, in all the worldThe one man free is Caesar. But if thouFor freedom and thy country’s laws aloneBe pleased to raise the sword, nor Magnus thenNor Caesar shall in Brutus find a foe.Not till the fight is fought shall Brutus strike,Then strike the victor.”
Brutus thus; but spakeCato from inmost breast these sacred words:“Chief in all wickedness is civil war,Yet virtue in the paths marked out by fateTreads on securely. Heaven’s will be the crimeTo have made even Cato guilty. Who has strengthTo gaze unawed upon a toppling world?When stars and sky fall headlong, and when earthSlips from her base, who sits with folded hands?Shall unknown nations, touched by western strife,And monarchs born beneath another climeBrave the dividing seas to join the war?Shall Scythian tribes desert their distant north,And Getae haste to view the fall of Rome,And I look idly on? As some fond sire,Reft of his sons, compelled by grief, himselfMarshals the long procession to the tomb,Thrusts his own hand within the funeral flames,Soothing his heart, and, as the lofty pyreRises on high, applies the kindled torch:Nought, Rome, shall tear thee from me, till I holdThy form in death embraced; and Freedom’s name,Shade though it be, I’ll follow to the grave.Yea! let the cruel gods exact in fullRome’s expiation: of no drop of bloodThe war be robbed. I would that, to the godsOf heaven and hell devoted, this my lifeMight satisfy their vengeance. Decius fell,Crushed by the hostile ranks. When Cato fallsLet Rhine’s fierce barbarous hordes and both the hostsThrust through my frame their darts! May I aloneReceive in death the wounds of all the war!Thus may the people be redeemed, and thusRome for her guilt pay the atonement due.Why should men die who wish to bear the yokeAnd shrink not from the tyranny to come?Strike me, and me alone, of laws and rightsIn vain the guardian: this vicarious lifeShall give Hesperia peace and end her toils.Who then will reign shall find no need for war.You ask, ‘Why follow Magnus? If he wins (13)He too will claim the Empire of the world.’Then let him, conquering with my service, learnNot for himself to conquer.” Thus he spokeAnd stirred the blood that ran in Brutus’ veinsMoving the youth to action in the war.
Soon as the sun dispelled the chilly night,The sounding doors flew wide, and from the tombOf dead Hortensius grieving Marcia came (14).First joined in wedlock to a greater manThree children did she bear to grace his home:Then Cato to Hortensius gave the dameTo be a fruitful mother of his sonsAnd join their houses in a closer tie.And now the last sad offices were doneShe came with hair dishevelled, beaten breast,And ashes on her brow, and features wornWith grief; thus only pleasing to the man.“When youth was in me and maternal powerI did thy bidding, Cato, and receivedA second husband: now in years grown oldNe’er to be parted I return to thee.Renew our former pledges undefiled:Give back the name of wife: upon my tombLet ‘Marcia, spouse to Cato,’ be engraved.Nor let men question in the time to come,Did’st thou compel, or did I willing leaveMy first espousals. Not in happy times,Partner of joys, I come; but days of careAnd labour shall be mine to share with thee.Nor leave me here, but take me to the camp,Thy fond companion: why should Magnus’ wifeBe nearer, Cato, to the wars than thine?”
Although the times were warlike and the fatesCalled to the fray, he lent a willing ear.Yet must they plight their faith in simple formOf law; their witnesses the gods alone.No festal wreath of flowers crowned the gateNor glittering fillet on each post entwined;No flaming torch was there, nor ivory steps,No couch with robes of broidered gold adorned;No comely matron placed upon her browThe bridal garland, or forbad the foot (15)To touch the threshold stone; no saffron veilConcealed the timid blushes of the bride;No jewelled belt confined her flowing robe (16)Nor modest circle bound her neck; no scarfHung lightly on the snowy shoulder’s edgeAround the naked arm. Just as she came,Wearing the garb of sorrow, while the woolCovered the purple border of her robe,Thus was she wedded. As she greets her sonsSo doth she greet her husband. Festal gamesGraced not their nuptials, nor were friends and kinAs by the Sabines bidden: silent bothThey joined in marriage, yet content, unseenBy any save by Brutus. Sad and sternOn Cato’s lineaments the marks of griefWere still unsoftened, and the hoary hairHung o’er his reverend visage; for since firstMen flew to arms, his locks were left unkemptTo stream upon his brow, and on his chinHis beard untended grew. ’Twas his aloneWho hated not, nor loved, for all mankindTo mourn alike. Nor did their former couchAgain receive them, for his lofty soulE’en lawful love resisted. ’Twas his ruleInflexible, to keep the middle pathMarked out and bounded; to observe the lawsOf natural right; and for his country’s sakeTo risk his life, his all, as not for selfBrought into being, but for all the world:Such was his creed. To him a sumptuous feastWas hunger conquered, and the lowly hut,Which scarce kept out the winter, was a homeEqual to palaces: a robe of priceSuch hairy garments as were worn of old:The end of marriage, offspring. To the StateFather alike and husband, right and lawHe ever followed with unswerving step:No thought of selfish pleasure turned the scaleIn Cato’s acts, or swayed his upright soul.
Meanwhile Pompeius led his trembling hostTo fields Campanian, and held the wallsFirst founded by the chief of Trojan race (17).These chose he for the central seat of war,Some troops despatching who might meet the foeWhere shady Apennine lifts up the ridgeOf mid Italia; nearest to the skyUpsoaring, with the seas on either hand,The upper and the lower. Pisa’s sandsBreaking the margin of the Tuscan deep,Here bound his mountains: there Ancona’s towersLaved by Dalmatian waves. Rivers immense,In his recesses born, pass on their course,To either sea diverging. To the leftMetaurus, and Crustumium’s torrent, fallAnd Sena’s streams and Aufidus who burstsOn Adrian billows; and that mighty floodWhich, more than all the rivers of the earth,Sweeps down the soil and tears the woods awayAnd drains Hesperia’s springs. In fabled loreHis banks were first by poplar shade enclosed: (18)And when by Phaethon the waning dayWas drawn in path transverse, and all the heavenBlazed with his car aflame, and from the depthsOf inmost earth were rapt all other floods,Padus still rolled in pride of stream along.Nile were no larger, but that o’er the sandOf level Egypt he spreads out his waves;Nor Ister, if he sought the Scythian mainUnhelped upon his journey through the worldBy tributary waters not his own.But on the right hand Tiber has his source,Deep-flowing Rutuba, Vulturnus swift,And Sarnus breathing vapours of the nightRise there, and Liris with Vestinian waveStill gliding through Marica’s shady grove,And Siler flowing through Salernian meads:And Macra’s swift unnavigable streamBy Luna lost in Ocean. On the AlpsWhose spurs strike plainwards, and on fields of GaulThe cloudy heights of Apennine look downIn further distance: on his nearer slopesThe Sabine turns the ploughshare; Umbrian kineAnd Marsian fatten; with his pineclad rocksHe girds the tribes of Latium, nor leavesHesperia’s soil until the waves that beatOn Scylla’s cave compel. His southern spursExtend to Juno’s temple, and of oldStretched further than Italia, till the mainO’erstepped his limits and the lands repelled.But, when the seas were joined, Pelorus claimedHis latest summits for Sicilia’s isle.
Caesar, in rage for war, rejoicing foundFoes in Italia; no bloodless stepsNor vacant homes had pleased him (19); so his marchWere wasted: now the coming war was joinedUnbroken to the past; to force the gatesNot find them open, fire and sword to bringUpon the harvests, not through fields unharmedTo pass his legions—this was Caesar’s joy;In peaceful guise to march, this was his shame.Italia’s cities, doubtful in their choice,Though to the earliest onset of the warAbout to yield, strengthened their walls with moundsAnd deepest trench encircling: massive stonesAnd bolts of war to hurl upon the foeThey place upon the turrets. Magnus mostThe people’s favour held, yet faith with fearFought in their breasts. As when, with strident blast,A southern tempest has possessed the mainAnd all the billows follow in its track:Then, by the Storm-king smitten, should the earthSet Eurus free upon the swollen deep,It shall not yield to him, though cloud and skyConfess his strength; but in the former windStill find its master. But their fears prevailed,And Caesar’s fortune, o’er their wavering faith.For Libo fled Etruria; Umbria lostHer freedom, driving Thermus (20) from her bounds;Great Sulla’s son, unworthy of his sire,Feared at the name of Caesar: Varus soughtThe caves and woods, when smote the hostile horseThe gates of Auximon; and Spinther drivenFrom Asculum, the victor on his track,Fled with his standards, soldierless; and thou,Scipio, did’st leave Nuceria’s citadelDeserted, though by bravest legions heldSent home by Caesar for the Parthian war (21);Whom Magnus earlier, to his kinsman gaveA loan of Roman blood, to fight the Gaul.
But brave Domitius held firm his post (22)Behind Corfinium’s ramparts; his the troopsWho newly levied kept the judgment hallAt Milo’s trial (23). When from far the plainRolled up a dusty cloud, beneath whose veilThe sheen of armour glistening in the sun,Revealed a marching host. “Dash down,” he cried,“Swift as ye can, the bridge that spans the stream;And thou, O river, from thy mountain sourceWith all thy torrents rushing, planks and beamsRuined and broken on thy foaming breastBear onward to the sea. The war shall stopHere, to our triumph; for this headlong chiefHere first at our firm bidding shall be stayed.”He bade his squadrons, speeding from the walls,Charge on the bridge: in vain: for Caesar sawThey sought to free the river from his chains (24)And bar his march; and roused to ire, he cried:“Were not the walls sufficient to protectYour coward souls? Seek ye by barricadesAnd streams to keep me back? What though the floodOf swollen Ganges were across my path?Now Rubicon is passed, no stream on earthShall hinder Caesar! Forward, horse and foot,And ere it totters rush upon the bridge.”Urged in their swiftest gallop to the frontDashed the light horse across the sounding plain;And suddenly, as storm in summer, flewA cloud of javelins forth, by sinewy armsHurled at the foe; the guard is put to flight,And conquering Caesar, seizing on the bridge,Compels the enemy to keep the walls.Now do the mighty engines, soon to hurlGigantic stones, press forward, and the ramCreeps ’neath the ramparts; when the gates fly back,And lo! the traitor troops, foul crime in war,Yield up their leader. Him they place beforeHis proud compatriot; yet with upright form,And scornful features and with noble mien,He asks his death. But Caesar knew his wishWas punishment, and pardon was his fear:“Live though thou would’st not,” so the chieftain spake,“And by my gift, unwilling, see the day:Be to my conquered foes the cause of hope,Proof of my clemency—or if thou wiltTake arms again—and should’st thou conquer, countThis pardon nothing.” Thus he spake, and badeLet loose the bands and set the captive free.Ah! better had he died, and fortune sparedThe Roman’s last dishonour, whose worse doomIt is, that he who joined his country’s campAnd fought with Magnus for the Senate’s causeShould gain for this—a pardon! Yet he curbedHis anger, thinking, “Wilt thou then to RomeAnd peaceful scenes, degenerate? Rather war,The furious battle and the certain end!Break with life’s ties: be Caesar’s gift in vain.”
Pompeius, ignorant that his captain thusWas taken, armed his levies newly raisedTo give his legions strength; and as he thoughtTo sound his trumpets with the coming dawn,To test his soldiers ere he moved his campThus in majestic tones their ranks addressed:“Soldiers of Rome! Avengers of her laws!To whom the Senate gives no private arms,Ask by your voices for the battle sign.Fierce falls the pillage on Hesperian fields,And Gallia’s fury o’er the snowy Alps (25)Is poured upon us. Caesar’s swords at lastAre red with Roman blood. But with the woundWe gain the better cause; the crime is theirs.No war is this, but for offended RomeWe wreak the vengeance; as when CatilineLifted against her roofs the flaming brandAnd, partner in his fury, Lentulus,And mad Cethegus (26) with his naked arm.Is such thy madness, Caesar? when the FatesWith great Camillus’ and Metellus’ namesMight place thine own, dost thou prefer to rankWith Marius and Cinna? Swift shall beThy fall: as Lepidus before the swordOf Catulus; or who my axes felt,Carbo (27), now buried in Sicanian tomb;Or who, in exile, roused Iberia’s hordes,Sertorius—yet, witness Heaven, with theseI hate to rank thee; hate the task that RomeHas laid upon me, to oppose thy rage.Would that in safety from the Parthian warAnd Scythian steppes had conquering Crassus come!Then haply had’st thou fallen by the handThat smote vile Spartacus the robber foe.But if among my triumphs fate has saidThy conquest shall be written, know this heartStill sends the life blood coursing: and this arm (28)Still vigorously flings the dart afield.He deems me slothful. Caesar, thou shalt learnWe brook not peace because we lag in war.Old, does he call me? Fear not ye mine age.Let me be elder, if his soldiers are.The highest point a citizen can reachAnd leave his people free, is mine: a throneAlone were higher; whoso would surpassPompeius, aims at that. Both Consuls standHere; here for battle stand your lawful chiefs:And shall this Caesar drag the Senate down?Not with such blindness, not so lost to shameDoes Fortune rule. Does he take heart from Gaul:For years on years rebellious, and a lifeSpent there in labour? or because he fledRhine’s icy torrent and the shifting poolsHe calls an ocean? or unchallenged soughtBritannia’s cliffs; then turned his back in flight?Or does he boast because his citizensWere driven in arms to leave their hearths and homes?Ah, vain delusion! not from thee they fled:My steps they follow—mine, whose conquering signsSwept all the ocean (29), and who, ere the moonTwice filled her orb and waned, compelled to flightThe pirate, shrinking from the open sea,And humbly begging for a narrow homeIn some poor nook on shore. ’Twas I againWho, happier far than Sulla, drave to death (30)That king who, exiled to the deep recessOf Scythian Pontus, held the fates of RomeStill in the balances. Where is the landThat hath not seen my trophies? Icy wavesOf northern Phasis, hot Egyptian shores,And where Syene ’neath its noontide sunKnows shade on neither hand (31): all these have learnedTo fear Pompeius: and far Baetis’ (32) stream,Last of all floods to join the refluent sea.Arabia and the warlike hordes that dwellBeside the Euxine wave: the famous landThat lost the golden fleece; Cilician wastes,And Cappadocian, and the Jews who prayBefore an unknown God; Sophene soft—All felt my yoke. What conquests now remain,What wars not civil can my kinsman wage?”
No loud acclaim received his words, nor shoutAsked for the promised battle: and the chiefDrew back the standards, for the soldier’s fearsWere in his soul alike; nor dared he trustAn army, vanquished by the fame aloneOf Caesar’s powers, to fight for such a prize.And as some bull, his early combat lost,Forth driven from the herd, in exile roamsThrough lonely plains or secret forest depths,Whets on opposing trunks his growing horn,And proves himself for battle, till his neckIs ribbed afresh with muscle: then returns,Defiant of the hind, and victor nowLeads wheresoe’er he will his lowing bands:Thus Magnus, yielding to a stronger foe,Gave up Italia, and sought in flightBrundusium’s sheltering battlements.
Here of oldFled Cretan settlers when the dusky sail (33)Spread the false message of the hero dead;Here, where Hesperia, curving as a bow,Draws back her coast, a little tongue of landShuts in with bending horns the sounding main.Yet insecure the spot, unsafe in storm,Were it not sheltered by an isle on whichThe Adriatic billows dash and fall,And tempests lose their strength: on either handA craggy cliff opposing breaks the galeThat beats upon them, while the ships withinHeld by their trembling cables ride secure.Hence to the mariner the boundless deepLies open, whether for Corcyra’s portHe shapes his sails, or for Illyria’s shore,And Epidamnus facing to the mainIonian. Here, when raging in his mightFierce Adria whelms in foam Calabria’s coast,When clouds tempestuous veil Ceraunus’ height,The sailor finds a haven.
When the chiefCould find no hope in battle on the soilHe now was quitting, and the lofty AlpsForbad Iberia, to his son he spake,The eldest scion of that noble stock:“Search out the far recesses of the earth,Nile and Euphrates, wheresoe’er the fameOf Magnus lives, where, through thy father’s deeds,The people tremble at the name of Rome.Lead to the sea again the pirate bands;Rouse Egypt’s kings; Tigranes, wholly mine,And Pharnaces and all the vagrant tribesOf both Armenias; and the Pontic hordes,Warlike and fierce; the dwellers on the hillsRhipaean, and by that dead northern marshWhose frozen surface bears the loaded wain.Why further stay thee? Let the eastern worldSound with the war, all cities of the earthConquered by me, as vassals, to my campSend all their levied hosts. And you whose namesWithin the Latian book recorded stand,Strike for Epirus with the northern wind;And thence in Greece and Macedonian tracts,(While winter gives us peace) new strength acquireFor coming conflicts.” They obey his wordsAnd loose their ships and launch upon the main.
But Caesar’s might, intolerant of peaceOr lengthy armistice, lest now perchanceThe fates might change their edicts, swift pursuedThe footsteps of his foe. To other men,So many cities taken at a blow,So many strongholds captured, might suffice;And Rome herself, the mistress of the world,Lay at his feet, the greatest prize of all.Not so with Caesar: instant on the goalHe fiercely presses; thinking nothing doneWhile aught remained to do. Now in his graspLay all Italia;—but while Magnus stayedUpon the utmost shore, his grieving soulDeemed all was shared with him. Yet he essayedEscape to hinder, and with labour vainPiled in the greedy main gigantic rocks:Mountains of earth down to the sandy depthsWere swallowed by the vortex of the sea;Just as if Eryx and its lofty topWere cast into the deep, yet not a speckShould mark the watery plain; or Gaurus hugeSplit from his summit to his base, were plungedIn fathomless Avernus’ stagnant pool.The billows thus unstemmed, ’twas Caesar’s willTo hew the stately forests and with treesEnchained to form a rampart. Thus of old(If fame be true) the boastful Persian kingPrepared a way across the rapid strait‘Twixt Sestos and Abydos, and made oneThe European and the Trojan shores;And marched upon the waters, wind and stormCounting as nought, but trusting his empriseTo one frail bridge, so that his ships might passThrough middle Athos. Thus a mighty moleOf fallen forests grew upon the waves,Free until then, and lofty turrets rose,And land usurped the entrance to the main.
This when Pompeius saw, with anxious careHis soul was filled; yet hoping to regainThe exit lost, and win a wider worldWherein to wage the war, on chosen shipsHe hoists the sails; these, driven by the windAnd drawn by cables fastened to their prows,Scattered the beams asunder; and at nightNot seldom engines, worked by stalwart arms,Flung flaming torches forth. But when the timeFor secret flight was come, no sailor shoutRang on the shore, no trumpet marked the hour,No bugle called the armament to sea.Already shone the Virgin in the skyLeading the Scorpion in her course, whose clawsForetell the rising Sun, when noiseless allThey cast the vessels loose; no song was heardTo greet the anchor wrenched from stubborn sand;No captain’s order, when the lofty mastWas raised, or yards were bent; a silent crewDrew down the sails which hung upon the ropes,Nor shook the mighty cables, lest the windShould sound upon them. But the chief, in prayer,Thus spake to Fortune: “Thou whose high decreeHas made us exiles from Italia’s shores,Grant us at least to leave them.” Yet the fatesHardly permitted, for a murmur vastCame from the ocean, as the countless keelsFurrowed the waters, and with ceaseless splashThe parted billows rose again and fell.Then were the gates thrown wide; for with the fatesThe city turned to Caesar: and the foe,Seizing the town, rushed onward by the pierThat circled in the harbour; then they knewWith shame and sorrow that the fleet was goneAnd held the open: and Pompeius’ flightGave a poor triumph.
Yet was narrower farThe channel which gave access to the seaThan that Euboean strait (34) whose waters laveThe shore by Chalcis. Here two ships stuck fastAlone, of all the fleet; the fatal hookGrappled their decks and drew them to the land,And the first bloodshed of the civil warHere left a blush upon the ocean wave.As when the famous ship (36) sought Phasis’ streamThe rocky gates closed in and hardly grippedHer flying stern; then from the empty seaThe cliffs rebounding to their ancient seatWere fixed to move no more. But now the stepsOf morn approaching tinged the eastern skyWith roseate hues: the Pleiades were dim,The wagon of the Charioteer grew pale,The planets faded, and the silvery starWhich ushers in the day, was lost in light.
Then Magnus, hold’st the deep; yet not the sameNow are thy fates, as when from every seaThy fleet triumphant swept the pirate pest.Tired of thy conquests, Fortune now no moreShall smile upon thee. With thy spouse and sons,Thy household gods, and peoples in thy train,Still great in exile, in a distant landThou seek’st thy fated fall; not that the gods,Wishing to rob thee of a Roman grave,Decreed the strands of Egypt for thy tomb:’Twas Italy they spared, that far awayFortune on shores remote might hide her crime,And Roman soil be pure of Magnus’ blood.
Endnotes:
(1) When dragged from his hiding place in the marsh, Marius was sent by the magistrates of Minturnae to the house of a woman named Fannia, and there locked up in a dark apartment. It does not appear that he was there long. A Gallic soldier was sent to kill him; “and the eyes of Marius appeared to him to dart a strong flame, and a loud voice issued from the gloom, ‘Man, do you dare to kill Caius Marius?’” He rushed out exclaiming, “I cannot kill Caius Marius.” (Plutarch, “Marius”, 38.) (2) The Governor of Libya sent an officer to Marius, who had landed in the neighbourhood of Carthage. The officer delivered his message, and Marius replied, “Tell the Governor you have seen Caius Marius, a fugitive sitting on the ruins of Carthage,” a reply in which he not inaptly compared the fate of that city and his own changed fortune. (Plutarch, “Marius”, 40.) (3) In the “gathering of fresh fury on Libyan soil”, there appears to be an allusion to the story of Antruns, in Book IV. (4) See Ben Jonson’s “Catiline”, Act i., scene 1, speaking of the Sullan massacre. Cethegus: Not infants in the porch of life were free. … Catiline: ’Twas crime enough that they had lives: to strike but only those that could do hurt was dull and poor: some fell to make the number as some the prey. (5) Whenever he did not salute a man, or return his salute, this was a signal for massacre. (Plutarch, “Marius”, 49.) (6) The Marian massacre was in B.C. 87–86; the Sullan in 82–81. (7) The head of Antonius was struck off and brought to Marius at supper. He was the grandfather of the triumvir. (8) Scaevola, it would appear, was put to death after Marius the elder died, by the younger Marius. He was Pontifex Maximus, and slain by the altar of Vesta. (9) B.C. 86, Marius and Cinna were Consuls. Marius died seventeen days afterwards, in the seventieth year of his age. (10) The Battle of Sacriportus was fought between Marius the younger and the Sullan army in B.C. 82. Marius was defeated with great loss, and fled to Praeneste, a town which afterwards submitted to Sulla, who put all the inhabitants to death (line 216). At the Colline gate was fought the decisive battle between Sulla and the Samnites, who, after a furious contest, were defeated. (11) Diomedes was said to feed his horses on human flesh. (For Antaeus see Book IV., 660.) Enomaus was king of Pisa in Elis. Those who came to sue for his daughter’s hand had to compete with him in a chariot race, and if defeated were put to death. (12) The brother of the Consul. (13) So Cicero: “Our Cnaeus is wonderfully anxious for such a royalty as Sulla’s. I who tell you know it.” (“Ep. ad Att.”, ix. 7.) (14) Marcia was first married to Cato, and bore him three sons; he then yielded her to Hortensius. On his death she returned to Cato. (Plutarch, “Cato”, 25, 52.) It was in reference to this that Caesar charged him with making a traffic of his marriage; but Plutarch says “to accuse Cato of filthy lucre is like upbraiding Hercules with cowardice.” After the marriage Marcia remained at Rome while Cato hurried after Pompeius. (15) The bride was carried over the threshold of her new home, for to stumble on it would be of evil omen. Plutarch (“Romulus”) refers this custom to the rape of the Sabine women, who were “so lift up and carried away by force.” (North, volume i., p. 88, Edition by Windham.) I have read “vetuit” in this passage, though “vitat” appears to be a better variation according to the manuscripts. (16) The bride was dressed in a long white robe, bound round the waist with a girdle. She had a veil of bright yellow colour. (“Dict. Antiq.”) (17) Capua, supposed to be founded by Capys, the Trojan hero. (Virgil, “Aeneid”, x., 145.) (18) Phaethon’s sisters, who yoked the horses of the Sun to the chariot for their brother, were turned into poplars. Phaethon was flung by Jupiter into the river Po. (19) See the note to Book I., 164. In reality Caesar found little resistance, and did not ravage the country. (20) Thermus, to whom Iguvium had been entrusted by the Senate, was compelled to quit it owing to the disaffection of the inhabitants. (Merivale, chapter xiv.) Auximon in a similar way rose against Varus. (21) After Caesar’s campaign with the Nervii, Pompeius had lent him a legion. When the Parthian war broke out and the Senate required each of the two leaders to supply a legion for it, Pompeius demanded the return of the legion which he had sent to Gaul; and Caesar returned it, together with one of his own. They were, however, retained in Italy. (22) See Book VII., 695. (23) See Book I., 368. (24) That is to say, by the breaking of the bridge, the river would become a serious obstacle to Caesar. (25) See line 497. (26) This family is also alluded to by Horace (“Ars Poetica”, 50) as having worn a garment of ancient fashion leaving their arms bare. (See also Book VI., 945.) (27) In B.C. 77, after the death of Sulla, Carbo had been defeated by Pompeius in 81 B.C., in which occasion Pompeius had, at the early age of twenty-five, demanded and obtained his first triumph. The war with Sertorius lasted till 71 B.C., when Pompeius and Metellus triumphed in respect of his overthrow. (28) See Book I., line 369. (29) In B.C. 67, Pompeius swept the pirates off the seas. The whole campaign did not last three months. (30) From B.C. 66 to B.C. 63, Pompeius conquered Mithridates, Syria and the East, except Parthia. (31) Being (as was supposed) exactly under the Equator. Syene (the modern Assouan) is the town mentioned by the priest of Sais, who told Herodotus that “between Syene and Elephantine are two hills with conical tops. The name of one of them is Crophi, and of the other, Mophi. Midway between them are the fountains of the Nile.” (Herod., II., chapter 28.) And see “Paradise Regained,” IV., 70:— “Syene, and where the shadow both way falls, Meroe, Nilotick isle;…” (32) Baetis is the Guadalquivir. (33) Theseus, on returning from his successful exploit in Crete, hoisted by mistake black sails instead of white, thus spreading false intelligence of disaster. (34) It seems that the Euripus was bridged over. (Mr. Haskins’ note.) (35) The “Argo”.