Book VI
The Fight Near Dyrrhachium. Scaeva’s Exploits. The Witch of Thessalia
Now that the chiefs with minds intent on fightHad drawn their armies near upon the hillsAnd all the gods beheld their chosen pair,Caesar, the Grecian towns despising, scornedTo reap the glory of successful warSave at his kinsman’s cost. In all his prayersHe seeks that moment, fatal to the world,When shall be cast the die, to win or lose,And all his fortune hang upon the throw.Thrice he drew out his troops, his eagles thrice,Demanding battle; thus to increase the woeOf Latium, prompt as ever: but his foes,Proof against every art, refused to leaveThe rampart of their camp. Then marching swiftBy hidden path between the wooded fieldsHe seeks, and hopes to seize, Dyrrhachium’s (1) fort;But Magnus, speeding by the ocean marge,First camped on Petra’s slopes, a rocky hillThus by the natives named. From thence he keepsWatch o’er the fortress of Corinthian birthWhich by its towers alone without a guardWas safe against a siege. No hand of manIn ancient days built up her lofty wall,No hammer rang upon her massive stones:Not all the works of war, nor Time himselfShall undermine her. Nature’s hand has raisedHer adamantine rocks and hedged her inWith bulwarks girded by the foamy main:And but for one short bridge of narrow earthDyrrhachium were an island. Steep and fierce,Dreaded of sailors, are the cliffs that bearHer walls; and tempests, howling from the west,Toss up the raging main upon the roofs;And homes and temples tremble at the shock.
Thirsting for battle and with hopes inflamedHere Caesar hastes, with distant rampart linesSeeking unseen to coop his foe within,Though spread in spacious camp upon the hills.With eagle eye he measures out the landMeet to be compassed, nor content with turfFit for a hasty mound, he bids his troopsTear from the quarries many a giant rock:And spoils the dwellings of the Greeks, and dragsTheir walls asunder for his own. Thus roseA mighty barrier which no ram could burstNor any ponderous machine of war.Mountains are cleft, and level through the hillsThe work of Caesar strides: wide yawns the moat,Forts show their towers rising on the heights,And in vast circle forests are enclosedAnd groves and spacious lands, and beasts of prey,As in a line of toils. Pompeius lackedNor field nor forage in th’ encircled spanNor room to move his camp; nay, rivers roseWithin, and ran their course and reached the sea;And Caesar wearied ere he saw the whole,And daylight failed him. Let the ancient taleAttribute to the labours of the godsThe walls of Ilium: let the fragile bricksWhich compass in great Babylon, amazeThe fleeting Parthian. Here a larger spaceThan those great cities which Orontes swiftAnd Tigris’ stream enclose, or that which boastsIn Eastern climes, the lordly palacesFit for Assyria’s kings, is closed by wallsAmid the haste and tumult of a warForced to completion. Yet this labour hugeWas spent in vain. So many hands had joinedOr Sestos with Abydos, or had tamedWith mighty mole the Hellespontine wave,Or Corinth from the realm of Pelops’ kingHad rent asunder, or had spared each shipHer voyage round the long Malean cape,Or had done anything most hard, to changeThe world’s created surface. Here the warWas prisoned: blood predestinate to flowIn all the parts of earth; the host foredoomedTo fall in Libya or in ThessalyWas here: in such small amphitheatreThe tide of civil passion rose and fell.
At first Pompeius knew not: so the hindWho peaceful tills the mid-Sicilian fieldsHears not Pelorous (2) sounding to the storm;So billows thunder on Rutupian shores (3),Unheard by distant Caledonia’s tribes.But when he saw the mighty barrier stretchO’er hill and valley, and enclose the land,He bade his columns leave their rocky holdAnd seize on posts of vantage in the plain;Thus forcing Caesar to extend his troopsOn wider lines; and holding for his ownSuch space encompassed as divides from RomeAricia, (4) sacred to that goddess chasteOf old Mycenae; or as Tiber holdsFrom Rome’s high ramparts to the Tuscan sea,Unless he deviate. No bugle callCommands an onset, and the darts that flyFly though forbidden; but the arm that flingsFor proof the lance, at random, here and thereDeals impious slaughter. Weighty care compelledEach leader to withhold his troops from fight;For there the weary earth of produce failedPressed by Pompeius’ steeds, whose horny hoofsRang in their gallop on the grassy fieldsAnd killed the succulence. They strengthless layUpon the mown expanse, nor pile of straw,Brought from full barns in place of living grass,Relieved their craving; shook their panting flanks,And as they wheeled Death struck his victim down.Then foul contagion filled the murky airWhose poisonous weight pressed on them in a cloudPestiferous; as in Nesis’ isle (5) the breathOf Styx rolls upwards from the mist-clad rocks;Or that fell vapour which the caves exhaleFrom Typhon (6) raging in the depths below.Then died the soldiers, for the streams they drankHeld yet more poison than the air: the skinWas dark and rigid, and the fiery plagueMade hard their vitals, and with pitiless toothGnawed at their wasted features, while their eyesStarted from out their sockets, and the headDrooped for sheer weariness. So the diseaseGrew swifter in its strides till scarce was room,‘Twixt life and death, for sickness, and the pestSlew as it struck its victim, and the deadThrust from the tents (such all their burial) layBlent with the living. Yet their camp was pitchedHard by the breezy sea by which might comeAll nations’ harvests, and the northern windNot seldom rolled the murky air away.Their foe, not vexed with pestilential airNor stagnant waters, ample range enjoyedUpon the spacious uplands: yet as thoughIn leaguer, famine seized them for its prey.Scarce were the crops half grown when Caesar sawHow prone they seized upon the food of beasts,And stripped of leaves the bushes and the groves,And dragged from roots unknown the doubtful herb.Thus ate they, starving, all that teeth may biteOr fire might soften, or might pass their throatsDry, parched, abraded; food unknown beforeNor placed on tables: while the leaguered foeWas blessed with plenty.
When Pompeius firstWas pleased to break his bonds and be at large,No sudden dash he makes on sleeping foeUnarmed in shade of night; his mighty soulScorns such a path to victory. ’Twas his aim,To lay the turrets low; to mark his track,By ruin spread afar; and with the swordTo hew a path between his slaughtered foes.Minucius’ (7) turret was the chosen spotWhere groves of trees and thickets gave approachSafe, unbetrayed by dust.
Up from the fieldsFlashed all at once his eagles into sightAnd all his trumpets blared. But ere the swordCould win the battle, on the hostile ranksDread panic fell; prone as in death they layWhere else upright they should withstand the foe;Nor more availed their valour, and in vainThe cloud of weapons flew, with none to slay.Then blazing torches rolling pitchy flameAre hurled, and shaken nod the lofty towersAnd threaten ruin, and the bastions groanStruck by the frequent engine, and the troopsOf Magnus by triumphant eagles ledStride o’er the rampart, in their front the world.
Yet now that passage which not Caesar’s selfNor thousand valiant squadrons had availedTo rescue from their grasp, one man in armsSteadfast till death refused them; Scaeva namedThis hero soldier: long he served in fightWaged ’gainst the savage on the banks of Rhone;And now centurion made, through deeds of blood,He bore the staff before the marshalled line.Prone to all wickedness, he little reckedHow valourous deeds in civil war may beGreatest of crimes; and when he saw how turnedHis comrades from the war and sought in flightA refuge, (8) “Whence,” he cried, “this impious fearUnknown to Caesar’s armies? Do ye turnYour backs on death, and are ye not ashamedNot to be found where slaughtered heroes lie?Is loyalty too weak? Yet love of fightMight bid you stand. We are the chosen fewThrough whom the foe would break. Unbought by bloodThis day shall not be theirs. ’Neath Caesar’s eye,True, death would be more happy; but this boonFortune denies: at least my fall shall bePraised by Pompeius. Break ye with your breastsTheir weapons; blunt the edges of their swordsWith throats unyielding. In the distant linesThe dust is seen already, and the soundOf tumult and of ruin finds the earOf Caesar: strike; the victory is ours:For he shall come who while his soldiers dieShall make the fortress his.” His voice called forthThe courage that the trumpets failed to rouseWhen first they rang: his comrades mustering comeTo watch his deeds; and, wondering at the man,To test if valour thus by foes oppressed,In narrow space, could hope for aught but death.But Scaeva standing on the tottering bankHeaves from the brimming turret on the foeThe corpses of the fallen; the ruined massFurnishing weapons to his hands; with beams,And ponderous stones, nay, with his body threatsHis enemies; with poles and stakes he thrustsThe breasts advancing; when they grasp the wallHe lops the arm: rocks crush the foeman’s skullAnd rive the scalp asunder: fiery boltsDashed at another set his hair aflame,Till rolls the greedy blaze about his eyesWith hideous crackle. As the pile of slainRose to the summit of the wall he sprang,Swift as across the nets a hunted pard,Above the swords upraised, till in mid throngOf foes he stood, hemmed in by densest ranksAnd ramparted by war; in front and rear,Where’er he struck, the victor. Now his swordBlunted with gore congealed no more could wound,But brake the stricken limb; while every handFlung every quivering dart at him alone;Nor missed their aim, for rang against his shieldDart after dart unerring, and his helmIn broken fragments pressed upon his brow;His vital parts were safeguarded by spearsThat bristled in his body. Fortune sawThus waged a novel combat, for there warredAgainst one man an army. Why with darts,Madmen, assail him and with slender shafts,’Gainst which his life is proof? Or ponderous stonesThis warrior chief shall overwhelm, or boltsFlung by the twisted thongs of mighty slings.Let steelshod ram or catapult removeThis champion of the gate. No fragile wallStands here for Caesar, blocking with its bulkPompeius’ way to freedom. Now he trustsHis shield no more, lest his sinister hand,Idle, give life by shame; and on his breastBearing a forest of spears, though spent with toilAnd worn with onset, falls upon his foeAnd braves alone the wounds of all the war.Thus may an elephant in Afric wastes,Oppressed by frequent darts, break those that fallRebounding from his horny hide, and shakeThose that find lodgment, while his life withinLies safe, protected, nor doth spear availTo reach the fount of blood. Unnumbered woundsBy arrow dealt, or lance, thus fail to slayThis single warrior. But lo! from farA Cretan archer’s shaft, more sure of aimThan vows could hope for, strikes on Scaeva’s browTo light within his eye: the hero tugsIntrepid, bursts the nerves, and tears the shaftForth with the eyeball, and with dauntless heelTreads them to dust. Not otherwise a bearPannonian, fiercer for the wound received,Maddened by dart from Libyan thong propelled,Turns circling on her wound, and still pursuesThe weapon fleeing as she whirls around.Thus, in his rage destroyed, his shapeless faceStood foul with crimson flow. The victors’ shoutGlad to the sky arose; no greater joyA little blood could give them had they seenThat Caesar’s self was wounded. Down he pressedDeep in his soul the anguish, and, with mien,No longer bent on fight, submissive cried,“Spare me, ye citizens; remove the warFar hence: no weapons now can haste my death;Draw from my breast the darts, but add no more.Yet raise me up to place me in the campOf Magnus, living: this your gift to him;No brave man’s death my title to renown,But Caesar’s flag deserted.” So he spake.Unhappy Aulus thought his words were true,Nor saw within his hand the pointed sword;And leaping forth in haste to make his ownThe prisoner and his arms, in middle throatReceived the lightning blade. By this one deathRose Scaeva’s valour again; and thus he cried,Such be the punishment of all who thoughtGreat Scaeva vanquished; if Pompeius seeksPeace from this reeking sword, low let him layAt Caesar’s feet his standards. Me do ye thinkSuch as yourselves, and slow to meet the fates?Your love for Magnus and the Senate’s causeIs less than mine for death.” These were his words;And dust in columns proved that Caesar came.Thus was Pompeius’ glory spared the stainOf flight compelled by Scaeva. He, when ceasedThe battle, fell, no more by rage of fight,Or sight of blood out-pouring from his wounds,Roused to the combat. Fainting there he layUpon the shoulders of his comrades borne,Who him adoring (as though deityDwelt in his bosom) for his matchless deeds,Plucked forth the gory shafts and took his armsTo deck the gods and shield the breast of Mars.Thrice happy thou with such a name achieved,Had but the fierce Iberian from thy sword,Or heavy shielded Teuton, or had fledThe light Cantabrian: with no spoils shalt thouAdorn the Thunderer’s temple, nor upraiseThe shout of triumph in the ways of Rome.For all thy prowess, all thy deeds of prideDo but prepare her lord.
Nor on this handRepulsed, Pompeius idly ceased from war,Content within his bars; but as the seaTireless, which tempests force upon the cragThat breaks it, or which gnaws a mountain sideSome day to fall in ruin on itself;He sought the turrets nearest to the main,On double onset bent; nor closely keptHis troops in hand, but on the spacious plainSpread forth his camp. They joyful leave the tentsAnd wander at their will. Thus Padus flowsIn brimming flood, and foaming at his bounds,Making whole districts quake; and should the bankFail ’neath his swollen waters, all his streamBreaks forth in swirling eddies over fieldsNot his before; some lands are lost, the restGain from his bounty.
Hardly from his towerHad Caesar seen the fire or known the fight:And coming found the rampart overthrown,The dust no longer stirred, the rains coldAs from a battle done. The peace that reignedThere and on Magnus’ side, as though men slept,Their victory won, aroused his angry soul.Quick he prepares, so that he end their joyCareless of slaughter or defeat, to rushWith threatening columns on Torquatus’ post.But swift as sailor, by his trembling mastWarned of Circeian tempest, furls his sails,So swift Torquatus saw, and prompt to wageThe war more closely, he withdrew his menWithin a narrower wall.
Now past the trenchWere Caesar’s companies, when from the hillsPompeius hurled his host upon their ranksShut in, and hampered. Not so much o’erwhelmedAs Caesar’s soldiers is the hind who dwellsOn Etna’s slopes, when blows the southern wind,And all the mountain pours its cauldrons forthUpon the vale; and huge Enceladus (9)Writhing beneath his load spouts o’er the plainsA blazing torrent.
Blinded by the dust,Encircled, vanquished, ere the fight, they fledIn cloud of terror on their rearward foe,So rushing on their fates. Thus had the warShed its last drop of blood and peace ensued,But Magnus suffered not, and held his troops.Back from the battle.
Thou, oh Rome, had’st beenFree, happy, mistress of thy laws and rightsWere Sulla here. Now shalt thou ever grieveThat in his crowning crime, to have met in fightA pious kinsman, Caesar’s vantage lay.Oh tragic destiny! Nor Munda’s fightHispania had wept, nor Libya mournedEncrimsoned Utica, nor Nilus’ stream,With blood unspeakable polluted, borneA nobler corse than her Egyptian kings:Nor Juba (10) lain unburied on the sands,Nor Scipio with his blood outpoured appeasedThe ghosts of Carthage; nor the blameless lifeOf Cato ended: and Pharsalia’s nameHad then been blotted from the book of fate.
But Caesar left the region where his armsHad found the deities averse, and marchedHis shattered columns to Thessalian lands.Then to Pompeius came (whose mind was bentTo follow Caesar wheresoe’er he fled)His captains, striving to persuade their chiefTo seek Ausonia, his native land,Now freed from foes. “Ne’er will I pass,” he said,“My country’s limit, nor revisit RomeLike Caesar, at the head of banded hosts.Hesperia when the war began was mine;Mine, had I chosen in our country’s shrines, (11)In midmost forum of her capital,To join the battle. So that banished farBe war from Rome, I’ll cross the torrid zoneOr those for ever frozen Scythian shores.What! shall my victory rob thee of the peaceI gave thee by my flight? Rather than thouShould’st feel the evils of this impious war,Let Caesar deem thee his.” Thus said, his courseHe turned towards the rising of the sun,And following devious paths, through forests wide,Made for Emathia, the land by fateForedoomed to see the issue.
Thessalia on that side where Titan firstRaises the wintry day, by Ossa’s rocksIs prisoned in: but in th’ advancing yearWhen higher in the vault his chariot rides’Tis Pelion that meets the morning rays.And when beside the Lion’s flames he drivesThe middle course, Othrys with woody topScreens his chief ardour. On the hither sidePindus receives the breezes of the westAnd as the evening falls brings darkness in.There too Olympus, at whose foot who dwellsNor fears the north nor sees the shining bear.Between these mountains hemmed, in ancient timeThe fields were marsh, for Tempe’s pass not yetWas cleft, to give an exit to the streamsThat filled the plain: but when Alcides’ handSmote Ossa from Olympus at a blow, (12)And Nereus wondered at the sudden floodOf waters to the main, then on the shore(Would it had slept for ever ’neath the deep)Seaborn Achilles’ home Pharsalus rose;And Phylace (13) whence sailed that ship of oldWhose keel first touched upon the beach of Troy;And Dorion mournful for the Muses’ ireOn Thamyris (14) vanquished: Trachis; MelibeStrong in the shafts (15) of Hercules, the priceOf that most awful torch; Larissa’s holdPotent of yore; and Argos, (16) famous erst,O’er which men pass the ploughshare: and the spotFabled as Echionian Thebes, (17) where onceAgavé bore in exile to the pyre(Grieving ’twas all she had) the head and neckOf Pentheus massacred. The lake set freeFlowed forth in many rivers: to the westAeas, (18) a gentle stream; nor stronger flowsThe sire of Isis ravished from his arms;And Achelous, rival for the handOf Oeneus’ daughter, rolls his earthy flood (19)To silt the shore beside the neighbouring isles.Evenus (20) purpled by the Centaur’s bloodWanders through Calydon: in the Malian GulfThy rapids fall, Spercheius: pure the waveWith which Amphrysos (21) irrigates the meadsWhere once Apollo served: Anaurus (22) flowsBreathing no vapour forth; no humid airRipples his face: and whatever stream,Nameless itself, to Ocean gives its wavesThrough thee, Peneus: (23) whirled in eddies foamsApidanus; Enipeus lingers onSwift only when fresh streams his volume swell:And thus Asopus takes his ordered course,Phoenix and Melas; but Eurotas keepsHis stream aloof from that with which he flows,Peneus, gliding on his top as thoughUpon the channel. Fable says that, sprungFrom darkest pools of Styx, with common floodsHe scorns to mingle, mindful of his source,So that the gods above may fear him still.
Soon as were sped the rivers, Boebian ploughsDark with its riches broke the virgin soil;Then came Lelegians to press the share,And Dolopes and sons of OeolusBy whom the glebe was furrowed. Steed-renownedMagnetians dwelt there, and the Minyan raceWho smote the sounding billows with the oar.There in the cavern from the pregnant cloudIxion’s sons found birth, the Centaur broodHalf beast, half human: Monychus who brokeThe stubborn rocks of Pholoe, Rhoetus fierceHurling from Oeta’s top gigantic elmsWhich northern storms could hardly overturn;Pholus, Alcides’ host: Nessus who boreThe Queen across Evenus’ (24) waves, to feelThe deadly arrow for his shameful deed;And aged Chiron (25) who with wintry starAgainst the huger Scorpion draws his bow.Here sparkled on the land the warrior seed; (26)Here leaped the charger from Thessalian rocks (27)Struck by the trident of the Ocean King,Omen of dreadful war; here first he learned,Champing the bit and foaming at the curb,Yet to obey his lord. From yonder shoreThe keel of pine first floated, (28) and bore menTo dare the perilous chance of seas unknown:And here Ionus ruler of the landFirst from the furnace molten masses drewOf iron and brass; here first the hammer fellTo weld them, shapeless; here in glowing streamRan silver forth and gold, soon to receiveThe minting stamp. ’Twas thus that money cameWhereby men count their riches, cause accursedOf warfare. Hence came down that Python hugeOn Cirrha: hence the laurel wreath which crownsThe Pythian victor: here Aloeus’ sonsGigantic rose against the gods, what timePelion had almost touched the stars supreme,And Ossa’s loftier peak amid the skyOpposing, barred the constellations’ way.
When in this fated land the chiefs had placedTheir several camps, foreboding of the endNow fast approaching, all men’s thoughts were turnedUpon the final issue of the war.And as the hour drew near, the coward mindsTrembling beneath the shadow of the fateNow hanging o’er them, deemed disaster near:While some took heart; yet doubted what might fall,In hope and fear alternate. ‘Mid the throngSextus, unworthy son of worthy sireWho soon upon the waves that Scylla guards, (29)Sicilian pirate, exile from his home,Stained by his deeds of shame the fights he won,Could bear delay no more; his feeble soul,Sick of uncertain fate, by fear compelled,Forecast the future: yet consulted notThe shrine of Delos nor the Pythian caves;Nor was he satisfied to learn the soundOf Jove’s brass cauldron, ‘mid Dodona’s oaks,By her primaeval fruits the nurse of men:Nor sought he sages who by flight of birds,Or watching with Assyrian care the starsAnd fires of heaven, or by victims slain,May know the fates to come; nor any sourceLawful though secret. For to him was knownThat which excites the hate of gods above;Magicians’ lore, the savage creed of DisAnd all the shades; and sad with gloomy ritesMysterious altars. For his frenzied soulHeaven knew too little. And the spot itselfKindled his madness, for hard by there dweltThe brood of Haemon (30) whom no storied witchOf fiction e’er transcended; all their artIn things most strange and most incredible;There were Thessalian rocks with deadly herbsThick planted, sensible to magic chants,Funereal, secret: and the land was fullOf violence to the gods: the Queenly guest (31)From Colchis gathered here the fatal rootsThat were not in her store: hence vain to heavenRise impious incantations, all unheard;For deaf the ears divine: save for one voiceWhich penetrates the furthest depths of airsCompelling e’en th’ unwilling deitiesTo hearken to its accents. Not the careOf the revolving sky or starry poleCan call them from it ever. Once the soundOf those dread tones unspeakable has reachedThe constellations, then nor BabylonNor secret Memphis, though they open wideThe shrines of ancient magic and entreatThe gods, could draw them from the fires that smokeUpon the altars of far Thessaly.To hearts of flint those incantations bringLove, strange, unnatural; the old man’s breastBurns with illicit fire. Nor lies the powerIn harmful cup nor in the juicy pledgeOf love maternal from the forehead drawn; (32)Charmed forth by spells alone the mind decays,By poisonous drugs unharmed. With woven threadsCrossed in mysterious fashion do they bindThose whom no passion born of beauteous formOr loving couch unites. All things on earthChange at their bidding; night usurps the day;The heavens disobey their wonted laws;At that dread hymn the Universe stands still;And Jove while urging the revolving wheelsWonders they move not. Torrents are outpouredBeneath a burning sun; and thunder roarsUncaused by Jupiter. From their flowing locksVapours immense shall issue at their call;When falls the tempest seas shall rise and foam (33)Moved by their spell; though powerless the breezeTo raise the billows. Ships against the windWith bellying sails move onward. From the rockHangs motionless the torrent: rivers runUphill; the summer heat no longer swellsNile in his course; Maeander’s stream is straight;Slow Rhone is quickened by the rush of Saone;Hills dip their heads and topple to the plain;Olympus sees his clouds drift overhead;And sunless Scythia’s sempiternal snowsMelt in mid-winter; the inflowing tidesDriven onward by the moon, at that dread chantEbb from their course; earth’s axes, else unmoved,Have trembled, and the force centripetalHas tottered, and the earth’s compacted frameStruck by their voice has gaped, (34) till through the voidMen saw the moving sky. All beasts most fierceAnd savage fear them, yet with deadly aidFurnish the witches’ arts. Tigers athirstFor blood, and noble lions on them fawnWith bland caresses: serpents at their wordUncoil their circles, and extended glideAlong the surface of the frosty field;The viper’s severed body joins anew;And dies the snake by human venom slain.
Whence comes this labour on the gods, compelledTo hearken to the magic chant and spells,Nor daring to despise them? Doth some bondControl the deities? Is their pleasure so,Or must they listen? and have silent threatsPrevailed, or piety unseen receivedSo great a guerdon? Against all the godsIs this their influence, or on one aloneWho to his will constrains the universe,Himself constrained? Stars most in yonder climeShoot headlong from the zenith; and the moonGliding serene upon her nightly courseIs shorn of lustre by their poisonous chant,Dimmed by dark earthly fires, as though our orbShadowed her brother’s radiance and barredThe light bestowed by heaven; nor freshly shinesUntil descending nearer to the earthShe sheds her baneful drops upon the mead.
These sinful rites and these her sister’s songsAbhorred Erichtho, fiercest of the race,Spurned for their piety, and yet viler artPractised in novel form. To her no homeBeneath a sheltering roof her direful headThus to lay down were crime: deserted tombsHer dwelling-place, from which, darling of hell,She dragged the dead. Nor life nor gods forbadBut that she knew the secret homes of StyxAnd learned to hear the whispered voice of ghostsAt dread mysterious meetings. (35) Never sunShed his pure light upon that haggard cheekPale with the pallor of the shades, nor lookedUpon those locks unkempt that crowned her brow.In starless nights of tempest crept the hagOut from her tomb to seize the levin bolt;Treading the harvest with accursed footShe burned the fruitful growth, and with her breathPoisoned the air else pure. No prayer she breathedNor supplication to the gods for helpNor knew the pulse of entrails as do menWho worship. Funeral pyres she loves to lightAnd snatch the incense from the flaming tomb.The gods at her first utterance grant her prayerFor things unlawful, lest they hear againIts fearful accents: men whose limbs were quickWith vital power she thrust within the graveDespite the fates who owed them years to come:The funeral reversed brought from the tombThose who were dead no longer; and the pyreYields to her shameless clutch still smoking dustAnd bones enkindled, and the torch which heldSome grieving sire but now, with fragments mixedIn sable smoke and ceremental clothsSinged with the redolent fire that burned the dead.But those who lie within a stony cellUntouched by fire, whose dried and mummied framesNo longer know corruption, limb by limbVenting her rage she tears, the bloodless eyesDrags from their cavities, and mauls the nailUpon the withered hand: she gnaws the nooseBy which some wretch has died, and from the treeDrags down a pendent corpse, its members tornAsunder to the winds: forth from the palmsWrenches the iron, and from the unbending bondHangs by her teeth, and with her hands collectsThe slimy gore which drips upon the limbs.
Where lay a corpse upon the naked earthOn ravening birds and beasts of prey the hagKept watch, nor marred by knife or hand her spoil,Till on his victim seized some nightly wolf; (36)Then dragged the morsel from his thirsty fangs;Nor fears she murder, if her rites demandBlood from the living, or some banquet fellRequires the panting entrail. Pregnant wombsYield to her knife the infant to be placedOn flaming altars: and whene’er she needsSome fierce undaunted ghost, he fails not herWho has all deaths in use. Her hand has chasedFrom smiling cheeks the rosy bloom of life;And with sinister hand from dying youthHas shorn the fatal lock: and holding oftIn foul embraces some departed friendSevered the head, and through the ghastly lips,Held by her own apart, some impious taleDark with mysterious horror hath conveyedDown to the Stygian shades.
When rumour broughtHer name to Sextus, in the depth of night,While Titan’s chariot beneath our earthWheeled on his middle course, he took his wayThrough fields deserted; while a faithful band,His wonted ministers in deeds of guilt,Seeking the hag ‘mid broken sepulchres,Beheld her seated on the crags afarWhere Haemus falls towards Pharsalia’s plain. (37)There was she proving for her gods and priestsWords still unknown, and framing numbered chantsOf dire and novel purpose: for she fearedLest Mars might stray into another world,And spare Thessalian soil the blood ere longTo flow in torrents; and she thus forbadePhilippi’s field, polluted with her song,Thick with her poisonous distilments sown,To let the war pass by. Such deaths, she hopes,Soon shall be hers! the blood of all the worldShed for her use! to her it shall be givenTo sever from their trunks the heads of kings,Plunder the ashes of the noble dead,Italia’s bravest, and in triumph addThe mightiest warriors to her host of shades.And now what spoils from Magnus’ tombless corseHer hand may snatch, on which of Caesar’s limbsShe soon may pounce, she makes her foul forecastAnd eager gloats.
To whom the coward sonOf Magnus thus: “Thou greatest ornamentOf Haemon’s daughters, in whose power it liesOr to reveal the fates, or from its courseTo turn the future, be it mine to knowBy thy sure utterance to what final endFortune now guides the issue. Not the leastOf all the Roman host on yonder plainAm I, but Magnus’ most illustrious son,Lord of the world or heir to death and doom.The unknown affrights me: I can firmly faceThe certain terror. Bid my destinyYield to thy power the dark and hidden end,And let me fall foreknowing. From the godsExtort the truth, or, if thou spare the gods,Force it from hell itself. Fling back the gatesThat bar th’ Elysian fields; let Death confessWhom from our ranks he seeks. No humble taskI bring, but worthy of Erichtho’s skillOf such a struggle fought for such a prizeTo search and tell the issue.”
Then the witchPleased that her impious fame was noised abroadThus made her answer: “If some lesser fatesThy wish had been to change, against their wishIt had been easy to compel the godsTo its accomplishment. My art has powerWhen of one man the constellations pressThe speedy death, to compass a delay;And mine it is, though every star decreesA ripe old age, by mystic herbs to shearThe life midway. But should some purpose setFrom the beginning of the universe,And all the labouring fortunes of mankind,Be brought in question, then Thessalian artBows to the power supreme. But if thou beContent to know the issue pre-ordained,That shall be swiftly thine; for earth and airAnd sea and space and Rhodopaean cragsShall speak the future. Yet it easiest seemsWhere death in these Thessalian fields aboundsTo raise a single corpse. From dead men’s lipsScarce cold, in fuller accents falls the voice;Not from some mummied flame in accents shrillUncertain to the ear.”
Thus spake the hagAnd through redoubled night, a squalid veilSwathing her pallid features, stole amongUnburied carcases. Fast fled the wolves,The carrion birds with maw unsatisfiedRelaxed their talons, as with creeping stepShe sought her prophet. Firm must be the fleshAs yet, though cold in death, and firm the lungsUntouched by wound. Now in the balance hungThe fates of slain unnumbered; had she strivenArmies to raise and order back to lifeWhole ranks of warriors, the laws had failedOf Erebus; and, summoned up from Styx,Its ghostly tenants had obeyed her call,And rising fought once more. At length the witchPicks out her victim with pierced throat agapeFit for her purpose. Gripped by pitiless hookO’er rocks she drags him to the mountain caveAccursed by her fell rites, that shall restoreThe dead man’s life.
Close to the hidden brinkThe land that girds the precipice of hellSinks towards the depths: with ever falling leavesA wood o’ershadows, and a spreading yewCasts shade impenetrable. Foul decayFills all the space, and in the deep recessDarkness unbroken, save by chanted spells,Reigns ever. Not where gape the misty jawsOf caverned Taenarus, the gloomy boundOf either world, through which the nether kingsPermit the passage of the dead to earth,So poisonous, mephitic, hangs the air.Nay, though the witch had power to call the shadesForth from the depths, ’twas doubtful if the caveWere not a part of hell. Discordant huesFlamed on her garb as by a fury worn;Bare was her visage, and upon her browDread vipers hissed, beneath her streaming locksIn sable coils entwined. But when she sawThe youth’s companions trembling, and himselfWith eyes cast down, with visage as of death,Thus spake the witch: “Forbid your craven soulsThese fears to cherish: soon returning lifeThis frame shall quicken, and in tones which reachEven the timorous ear shall speak the man.If I have power the Stygian lakes to show,The bank that sounds with fire, the fury band,And giants lettered, and the hound that shakesBristling with heads of snakes his triple head,What fear is this that cringes at the sightOf timid shivering shades?”
Then to her prayer.First through his gaping bosom blood she poursStill fervent, washing from his wounds the gore.Then copious poisons from the moon distilsMixed with all monstrous things which Nature’s pangsBring to untimely birth; the froth from dogsStricken with madness, foaming at the stream;A lynx’s entrails: and the knot that growsUpon the fell hyaena; flesh of stagsFed upon serpents; and the sucking fishWhich holds the vessel back (38) though eastern windsMake bend the canvas; dragon’s eyes; and stonesThat sound beneath the brooding eagle’s wings.Nor Araby’s viper, nor the ocean snakeWho in the Red Sea waters guards the shell,Are wanting; nor the slough on Libyan sandsBy horned reptile cast; nor ashes failSnatched from an altar where the Phoenix died.And viler poisons many, which herselfHas made, she adds, whereto no name is given:Pestiferous leaves pregnant with magic chantsAnd blades of grass which in their primal growthHer cursed mouth had slimed. Last came her voiceMore potent than all herbs to charm the godsWho rule in Lethe. Dissonant murmurs firstAnd sounds discordant from the tongues of menShe utters, scarce articulate: the bayOf wolves, and barking as of dogs, were mixedWith that fell chant; the screech of nightly owlRaising her hoarse complaint; the howl of beastAnd sibilant hiss of snake—all these were there;And more—the waft of waters on the rock,The sound of forests and the thunder peal.Such was her voice; but soon in clearer tonesReaching to Tartarus, she raised her song:“Ye awful goddesses, avenging powerOf Hell upon the damned, and Chaos hugeWho striv’st to mix innumerable worlds,And Pluto, king of earth, whose weary soulGrieves at his godhead; Styx; and plains of blissWe may not enter: and thou, Proserpine,Hating thy mother and the skies above,My patron goddess, last and lowest form (39)Of Hecate through whom the shades and IHold silent converse; warder of the gateWho castest human offal to the dog:Ye sisters who shall spin the threads again; (40)And thou, O boatman of the burning wave,Now wearied of the shades from hell to meReturning, hear me if with voice I cryAbhorred, polluted; if the flesh of manHath ne’er been absent from my proffered song,Flesh washed with brains still quivering; if the childWhose severed head I placed upon the dishBut for this hand had lived—a listening earLend to my supplication! From the cavesHid in the innermost recess of hellI claim no soul long banished from the light.For one but now departed, lingering stillUpon the brink of Orcus, is my prayer.Grant (for ye may) that listening to the spellOnce more he seek his dust; and let the shadeOf this our soldier perished (if the warWell at your hands has merited), proclaimThe destiny of Magnus to his son.”
Such prayers she uttered; then, her foaming lipsAnd head uplifting, present saw the ghost.Hard by he stood, beside the hated corpseHis ancient prison, and loathed to enter in.There was the yawning chest where fell the blowThat was his death; and yet the gift supremeOf death, his right, (Ah, wretch!) was reft away.Angered at Death the witch, and at the pauseConceded by the fates, with living snakeScourges the moveless corse; and on the deadShe barks through fissures gaping to her song,Breaking the silence of their gloomy home:“Tisiphone, Megaera, heed ye not?Flies not this wretched soul before your whipsThe void of Erebus? By your very names,She-dogs of hell, I’ll call you to the day,Not to return; through sepulchres and deathYour gaoler: from funereal urns and tombsI’ll chase you forth. And thou, too, Hecate,Who to the gods in comely shape and mien,Not that of Erebus, appearst, henceforthWasted and pallid as thou art in hell
At my command shalt come. I’ll noise abroadThe banquet that beneath the solid earthHolds thee, thou maid of Enna; by what bondThou lov’st night’s King, by what mysterious stainInfected, so that Ceres fears from hellTo call her daughter. And for thee, base king,Titan shall pierce thy caverns with his raysAnd sudden day shall smite thee. Do ye hear?Or shall I summon to mine aid that godAt whose dread name earth trembles; who can lookUnflinching on the Gorgon’s head, and driveThe Furies with his scourge, who holds the depthsYe cannot fathom, and above whose hauntsYe dwell supernal; who by waves of StyxForswears himself unpunished?”
Then the bloodGrew warm and liquid, and with softening touchCherished the stiffened wounds and filled the veins,Till throbbed once more the slow returning pulseAnd every fibre trembled, as with deathLife was commingled. Then, not limb by limb,With toil and strain, but rising at a boundLeaped from the earth erect the living man.Fierce glared his eyes uncovered, and the lifeWas dim, and still upon his face remainedThe pallid hues of hardly parted death.Amazement seized upon him, to the earthBrought back again: but from his lips tight drawnNo murmur issued; he had power aloneWhen questioned to reply. “Speak,” quoth the hag,“As I shall bid thee; great shall be thy gainIf but thou answerest truly, freed for ayeFrom all Haemonian art. Such burial placeShall now be thine, and on thy funeral pyreSuch fatal woods shall burn, such chant shall sound,That to thy ghost no more or magic songOr spell shall reach, and thy Lethaean sleepShall never more be broken in a deathFrom me received anew: for such rewardThink not this second life enforced in vain.Obscure may be the answers of the godsBy priestess spoken at the holy shrine;But whoso braves the oracles of deathIn search of truth, should gain a sure response.Then speak, I pray thee. Let the hidden fatesTell through thy voice the mysteries to come.”
Thus spake she, and her words by mystic forceGave him his answer; but with gloomy mien,And tears swift flowing, thus he made reply:“Called from the margin of the silent streamI saw no fateful sisters spin the threads.Yet know I this, that ‘mid the Roman shadesReigns fiercest discord; and this impious warDestroys the peace that ruled the fields of death.Elysian meads and deeps of TartarusIn paths diverse the Roman chieftains leaveAnd thus disclose the fates. The blissful ghostsBear visages of sorrow. Sire and sonThe Decii, who gave themselves to deathIn expiation of their country’s doom,And great Camillus, wept; and Sulla’s shadeComplained of fortune. Scipio bewailedThe scion of his race about to fallIn sands of Libya: Cato, greatest foeTo Carthage, grieves for that indignant soulWhich shall disdain to serve. Brutus aloneIn all the happy ranks I smiling saw,First consul when the kings were thrust from Rome.The chains were fallen from boastful Catiline.Him too I saw rejoicing, and the pairOf Marii, and Cethegus’ naked arm. (41)The Drusi, heroes of the people, joyed,In laws immoderate; and the famous pair (42)Of greatly daring brothers: guilty bandsBy bars eternal shut within the doorsThat close the prison of hell, applaud the fates,Claiming the plains Elysian: and the KingThrows wide his pallid halls, makes hard the pointsOf craggy rocks, and forges iron chains,The victor’s punishment. But take with theeThis comfort, youth, that there a calm abode,And peaceful, waits thy father and his house.Nor let the glory of a little spanDisturb thy boding heart: the hour shall comeWhen all the chiefs shall meet. Shrink not from death,But glowing in the greatness of your souls,E’en from your humble sepulchres descend,And tread beneath your feet, in pride of place,The wandering phantoms of the gods of Rome. (43)Which of the chiefs by Tiber’s yellow stream,And which by Nile shall rest (the leaders’ fate)This fight decides, no more. Nor seek to knowFrom me thy fortunes: for the fates in timeShall give thee all thy due; and thy great sire, (44)A surer prophet, in Sicilian fieldsShall speak thy future—doubting even heWhat regions of the world thou should’st avoidAnd what should’st seek. O miserable race!Europe and Asia and Libya’s plains, (45)Which saw your conquests, now shall hold alikeYour burial-place—nor has the earth for youA happier land than this.”
His task performed,He stands in mournful guise, with silent lookAsking for death again; yet could not dieTill mystic herb and magic chant prevailed.For nature’s law, once used, had power no moreTo slay the corpse and set the spirit free.With plenteous wood she builds the funeral pyreTo which the dead man comes: then as the flamesSeized on his form outstretched, the youth and witchTogether sought the camp; and as the dawnNow streaked the heavens, by the hag’s commandThe day was stayed till Sextus reached his tent,And mist and darkness veiled his safe return.
Endnotes:
(1) Dyrrhachium (or Epidamnus) was a Corcyraean colony, but itsfounder was of Corinth, the metropolis of Corcyra. It stoodsome sixty miles north of the Ceraunian promontory (Book V.,747). About the year 1100 it was stormed and taken byRobert the Guiscard, after furious battles with the troopsof the Emperor Alexius. Its modern name is Durazzo. It maybe observed that, according to Caesar’s account, hesucceeded in getting between Pompey and Dyrrhachium, B.C. 3,41, 42.(2) C. del Faro, the N.E. point of Sicily.(3) The shores of Kent.(4) Aricia was situated on the Via Appia, about sixteen milesfrom Rome. There was a temple of Diana close to it, amongsome woods on a small lake. Aricia was Horace’s firsthalting place on his journey to Brundisium (“Satires”, i.5). As to Diana, see Book I., line 501.(5) An island in the Bay of Puteoli.(6) Typhon, the hundred-headed giant, was buried under MountEtna.(7) This was Scaeva’s name.(8) The vinewood staff was the badge of the centurion’s office.(9) This giant, like Typhon, was buried under Mount Etna.(10) Juba and Petreius killed each other after the battle ofThapsus to avoid falling into Caesar’s hands. See Book IV.,line 5.(11) So Cicero: “Shall I, who have been called saviour of thecity and father of my country, bring into it an army ofGetae, Armenians and Colchians?” (“Ep. ad Atticum”, ix., 10.)(12) See Book VIII., line 3.(13) Protesilaus, from this place, first landed at Troy.(14) Thamyris challenged the Muses to a musical contest, andbeing vanquished, was by them deprived of sight.(15) The arrows given to Philoctetes by Hercules as a reward forkindling his funeral pyre.(16) This is the Pelasgic, not the historical, Argos.(17) Book I., line 632; Book VII., line 904. Agave was adaughter of Cadmus, and mother of Pentheus, king of theBoeotian Thebes. He was opposed to the mysterious worshipof Dionysus, which his mother celebrated, and which he hadwatched from a tree. She tore him to pieces, being urgedinto a frenzy and mistaking him for a wild beast. She thenretired to another Thebes, in Phthiotis, in triumph, withhis head and shoulders. By another legend she did not leavethe Boeotian Thebes. (See Grote, vol. i., p. 220. Edit.1862.)(18) Aeas was a river flowing from the boundary of Thessalythrough Epirus to the Ionian Sea. The sire of Isis, or Io,was Inachus; but the river of that name is usually placed inthe Argive territory.(19) A river rising in Mount Pindus and flowing into the IonianSea nearly opposite to Ithaca. At its mouth the sea hasbeen largely silted up.(20) The god of this river fought with Hercules for the hand ofDeianira. After Hercules had been married to Deianira, andwhen they were on a journey, they came to the River Evenus.Here Nessus, a Centaur, acted as ferryman, and Hercules badehim carry Deianira across. In doing so he insulted her, andHercules shot him with an arrow.(21) Admetus was King of Pherae in Thessaly, and sued forAlcestis, the daughter of Pelias, who promised her to him ifhe should come in a chariot drawn by lions and boars. Withthe assistance of Apollo, Admetus performed this. Apollo,for the slaughter of the Cyclops, was condemned to serve amortal, and accordingly he tended the flocks of Admetus fornine years. The River Amphrysos is marked as flowing intothe Pagasaean Gulf at a short distance below Pherae.(22) Anaurus was a small river passing into the Pagasaean Gulfpast Iolcos. In this river Jason is said to have lost oneof his slippers.(23) The River Peneus flowed into the sea through the pass ofTempe, cloven by Hercules between Olympus and Ossa (see line406); and carried with it Asopus, Phoenix, Melas, Enipeus,Apidanus, and Titaresus (or Eurotas). The Styx is generallyplaced in Arcadia, but Lucan says that Eurotas rises fromthe Stygian pools, and that, mindful of this mysterioussource, he refuses to mingle his streams with that ofPeneus, in order that the gods may still fear to break anoath sworn upon his waters.(24) See on line 429.(25) Chiron, the aged Centaur, instructor of Peleus, Achilles,and others. He was killed by one of the poisoned arrows ofHercules, but placed by Zeus among the stars as the Archer,from which position he appears to be aiming at the Scorpion.His constellation appears in winter.(26) The teeth of the dragon slain by Cadmus; though this tookplace in Boeotia.(27) Poseidon and Athena disputed as to which of them should namethe capital of Attica. The gods gave the reward to that oneof them who should produce the thing most useful to man;whereupon Athena produced an olive tree, and Poseidon ahorse. Homer also places the scene of this event inThessaly. (“Iliad”, xxiii., 247.)(28) The Argo. Conf. Book III., 223.(29) See Book VII., 1022.(30) Son of Pelasgus. From him was derived the ancient name ofThessaly, Haemonia.(31) Medea.(32) It was supposed that there was on the forehead of the new-born foal an excrescence, which was bitten off and eaten bythe mother. If she did not do this she had no affection forthe foal. (Virgil, “Aeneid”, iv., 515.)(33) “When the boisterous sea,Without a breath of wind, hath knocked the sky.”—Ben Jonson, “Masque of Queens”.(34) The sky was supposed to move round, but to be restrained inits course by the planets. (See Book X., line 244.)(35) “Coatus audire silentum.” To be present at the meetings ofthe dead and hear their voices. So, in the sixth Aeneid,the dead Greek warriors in feeble tones endeavour to expresstheir fright at the appearance of the Trojan hero (lines492, 493).(36) “As if that piece were sweeter which the wolf had bitten.”Note to “The Masque of Queens”, in which the first hag says:“I have been all day, looking afterA raven feeding on a quarter,And soon as she turned her beak to the southI snatched this morsel out of her mouth.”—Ben Jonson, “Masque of Queens”.But more probably the meaning is that the wolf’s bite gavethe flesh magical efficacy.(37) Confusing Pharsalia with Philippi. (See line 684.)(38) One of the miraculous stories to be found in Pliny’s“Natural History”. See Lecky’s “Augustus to Charlemagne”,vol. i., p. 370.(39) The mysterious goddess Hecate was identified with Luna inheaven, Diana on earth, and Proserpine in the lower regions.The text is doubtful.(40) That is, for the second life of her victim.(41) See Book II., 609.(42) The Gracchi, the younger of whom aimed at being a perpetualtribune, and was in some sort a forerunner of the Emperors.(43) That is, the Caesars, who will be in Tartarus.(44) Referring probably to an episode intended to be introducedin a later book, in which the shade of Pompeius was toforetell his fate to Sextus.(45) Cnaeus was killed in Spain after the battle of Munda; Sextusat Miletus; Pompeius himself, of course, in Egypt.