Book VII
The Battle
Ne’er to the summons of the Eternal lawsMore slowly Titan rose, (1) nor drave his steeds,Forced by the sky revolving, (2) up the heaven,With gloomier presage; wishing to endureThe pangs of ravished light, and dark eclipse;And drew the mists up, not to feed his flames, (3)But lest his light upon Thessalian earthMight fall undimmed.
Pompeius on that morn,To him the latest day of happy life,In troubled sleep an empty dream conceived.For in the watches of the night he heardInnumerable Romans shout his nameWithin his theatre; the benches viedTo raise his fame and place him with the gods;As once in youth, when victory was wonO’er conquered tribes where swift Iberus flows, (4)And where Sertorius’ armies fought and fled,The west subdued, with no less majestyThan if the purple toga graced the car,He sat triumphant in his pure white gownA Roman knight, and heard the Senate’s cheer.Perhaps, as ills drew near, his anxious soul,Shunning the future wooed the happy past;Or, as is wont, prophetic slumber showedThat which was not to be, by doubtful formsMisleading; or as envious Fate forbadeReturn to Italy, this glimpse of RomeKind Fortune gave. Break not his latest sleep,Ye sentinels; let not the trumpet callStrike on his ear: for on the morrow’s nightShapes of the battle lost, of death and warShall crowd his rest with terrors. Whence shalt thouThe poor man’s happiness of sleep regain?Happy if even in dreams thy Rome could seeOnce more her captain! Would the gods had givenTo thee and to thy country one day yetTo reap the latest fruit of such a love:Though sure of fate to come! Thou marchest onAs though by heaven ordained in Rome to die;She, conscious ever of her prayers for theeHeard by the gods, deemed not the fates decreedSuch evil destiny, that she should loseThe last sad solace of her Magnus’ tomb.Then young and old had blent their tears for thee,And child unbidden; women torn their hairAnd struck their bosoms as for Brutus dead.But now no public woe shall greet thy deathAs erst thy praise was heard: but men shall grieveIn silent sorrow, though the victor’s voiceAmid the clash of arms proclaims thy fall;Though incense smoke before the Thunderer’s shrine,And shouts of welcome bid great Caesar hail.
The stars had fled before the growing morn,When eager voices (as the fates drew onThe world to ruin) round Pompeius’ tentDemand the battle signal. What! by thoseSo soon to perish, shall the sign be asked,Their own, their country’s doom? Ah! fatal rageThat hastens on the hour; no other sunUpon this living host shall rise again.“Pompeius fears!” they cry. “He’s slow to act;Too kind to Caesar; and he fondly rulesA world of subject peoples; but with peaceSuch rule were ended.” Eastern kings no less,And peoples, eager for their distant homes,Already murmured at the lengthy war.
Thus hath it pleased the gods, when woe impendsOn guilty men, to make them seem its cause.We court disaster, crave the fatal sword.Of Magnus’ camp Pharsalia was the prayer;For Tullius, of all the sons of RomeChief orator, beneath whose civil ruleFierce Catiline at the peace-compelling axeTrembled and fled, arose, to Magnus’ earBearing the voice of all. To him was warGrown hateful, and he longed once more to hearThe Senate’s plaudits; and with eloquent lipsHe lent persuasion to the weaker cause.“Fortune, Pompeius, for her gifts to theeAsks this one boon, that thou should’st use her now.Here at thy feet thy leading captains lie;And here thy monarchs, and a suppliant worldEntreats thee prostrate for thy kinsman’s fall.So long shall Caesar plunge the world in war?Swift was thy tread when these proud nations fell;How deep their shame, and justly, should delayNow mar thy conquests! Where thy trust in Fate,Thy fervour where? Ingrate! Dost dread the gods,Or think they favour not the Senate’s cause?Thy troops unbidden shall the standards seizeAnd conquer; thou in shame be forced to win.If at the Senate’s orders and for usThe war is waged, then give to us the rightTo choose the battle-field. Why dost thou keepFrom Caesar’s throat the swords of all the world?The weapon quivers in the eager hand:Scarce one awaits the signal. Strike at once,Or without thee the trumpets sound the fray.Art thou the Senate’s comrade or her lord?We wait your answer.”
But Pompeius groaned;His mind was adverse, but he felt the fatesOpposed his wish, and knew the hand divine.“Since all desire it, and the fates prevail,So let it be; your leader now no more,I share the labours of the battle-field.Let Fortune roll the nations of the earthIn one red ruin; myriads of mankindSee their last sun to-day. Yet, Rome, I swear,This day of blood was forced upon thy son.Without a wound, the prizes of the warMight have been thine, and he who broke the peaceIn peace forgotten. Whence this lust for crime?Shall bloodless victories in civil warBe shunned, not sought? We’ve ravished from our foeAll boundless seas, and land; his starving troopsHave snatched earth’s crop half-grown, in vain attemptTheir hunger to appease; they prayed for death,Sought for the sword-thrust, and within our ranksWere fain to mix their life-blood with your own.Much of the war is done: the conscript youthWhose heart beats high, who burns to join the fray(Though men fight hard in terror of defeat),The shock of onset need no longer fear.Bravest is he who promptly meets the illWhen fate commands it and the moment comes,Yet brooks delay, in prudence; and shall we,Our happy state enjoying, risk it all?Trust to the sword the fortunes of the world?Not victory, but battle, ye demand.Do thou, O Fortune, of the Roman stateWho mad’st Pompeius guardian, from his handsTake back the charge grown weightier, and thyselfCommit its safety to the chance of war.Nor blame nor glory shall be mine to-day.Thy prayers unjustly, Caesar, have prevailed:We fight! What wickedness, what woes on men,Destruction on what realms this dawn shall bring!Crimson with Roman blood yon stream shall run.Would that (without the ruin of our cause)The first fell bolt hurled on this cursed dayMight strike me lifeless! Else, this battle bringsA name of pity or a name of hate.The loser bears the burden of defeat;The victor wins, but conquest is a crime.”Thus to the soldiers, burning for the fray,He yields, forbidding, and throws down the reins.So may a sailor give the winds controlUpon his barque, which, driven by the seas,Bears him an idle burden. Now the campHums with impatience, and the brave man’s heartWith beats tumultuous throbs against his breast;And all the host had standing in their looks (5)The paleness of the death that was to come.On that day’s fight ’twas manifest that RomeAnd all the future destinies of manHung trembling; and by weightier dread possessed,They knew not danger. Who would fear for selfShould ocean rise and whelm the mountain tops,And sun and sky descend upon the earthIn universal chaos? Every mindIs bent upon Pompeius, and on Rome.They trust no sword until its deadly pointGlows on the sharpening stone; no lance will serveTill straightened for the fray; each bow is strungAnew, and arrows chosen for their workFill all the quivers; horsemen try the curbAnd fit the bridle rein and whet the spur.If toils divine with human may compare,’Twas thus, when Phlegra bore the giant crew, (6)In Etna’s furnace glowed the sword of Mars,Neptunus’ trident felt the flame once more;And great Apollo after Python slainSharpened his darts afresh: on Pallas’ shieldWas spread anew the dread Medusa’s hair;And broad Sicilia trembled at the blowsOf Vulcan forging thunderbolts for Jove.
Yet Fortune failed not, as they sought the field,In various presage of the ills to come;All heaven opposed their march: portentous fireIn columns filled the plain, and torches blazed:And thirsty whirlwinds mixed with meteor boltsSmote on them as they strode, whose sulphurous flamesPerplexed the vision. Crests were struck from helms;The melted sword-blade flowed upon the hilt:The spear ran liquid, and the hurtful steelSmoked with a sulphur that had come from heaven.Nay, more, the standards, hid by swarms of beesInnumerable, weighed the bearer down,Scarce lifted from the earth; bedewed with tears;No more of Rome the standards, (7) or her state.And from the altar fled the frantic bullTo fields afar; nor was a victim foundTo grace the sacrifice of coming doom.
But thou, Caesar, to what gods of illDidst thou appeal? What furies didst thou call,What powers of madness and what Stygian KingsWhelmed in th’ abyss of hell? Didst favour gainBy sacrifice in this thine impious war?Strange sights were seen; or caused by hands divineOr due to fearful fancy. Haemus’ topPlunged headlong in the valley, Pindus metWith high Olympus, while at Ossa’s feetRed ran Baebeis, (8) and Pharsalia’s fieldGave warlike voices forth in depth of night.Now darkness came upon their wondering gaze,Now daylight pale and wan, their helmets wreathedIn pallid mist; the spirits of their siresHovered in air, and shades of kindred deadPassed flitting through the gloom. Yet to the hostConscious of guilty prayers which sought to shedThe blood of sires and brothers, earth and airDistraught, and horrors seething in their heartsGave happy omen of the end to come.
Was’t strange that peoples whom their latest dayOf happy life awaited (if their mindsForeknew the doom) should tremble with affright?Romans who dwelt by far Araxes’ stream,And Tyrian Gades, (9) in whatever clime,’Neath every sky, struck by mysterious dreadWere plunged in sorrow—yet rebuked the tear,For yet they knew not of the fatal day.Thus on Euganean hills (10) where sulphurous fumesDisclose the rise of Aponus (11) from earth,And where Timavus broadens in the meads,An augur spake: “This day the fight is fought,The arms of Caesar and Pompeius meetTo end the impious conflict.” Or he sawThe bolts of Jupiter, predicting ill;Or else the sky discordant o’er the spaceOf heaven, from pole to pole; or else perchanceThe sun was sad and misty in the heightAnd told the battle by his wasted beams.By Nature’s fiat that Thessalian dayPassed not as others; if the gifted senseOf reading portents had been given to all,All men had known Pharsalia. Gods of heaven!How do ye mark the great ones of the earth!The world gives tokens of their weal or woe;The sky records their fates: in distant climesTo future races shall their tale be told,Or by the fame alone of mighty deedsHad in remembrance, or by this my careBorne through the centuries: and men shall readIn hope and fear the story of the warAnd breathless pray, as though it were to come,For that long since accomplished; and for theeThus far, Pompeius, shall that prayer be given.
Reflected from their arms, th’ opposing sunFilled all the slope with radiance as they marchedIn ordered ranks to that ill-fated fight,And stood arranged for battle. On the leftThou, Lentulus, had’st charge; two legions there,The fourth, and bravest of them all, the first:While on the right, Domitius, ever stanch,Though fates be adverse, stood: in middle lineThe hardy soldiers from Cilician lands,In Scipio’s care; their chief in Libyan days,To-day their comrade. By Enipeus’ poolsAnd by the rivulets, the mountain troopsOf Cappadocia, and loose of reinThy squadrons, Pontus: on the firmer groundGalatia’s tetrarchs and the greater kings;And all the purple-robed, the slaves of Rome.Numidian hordes were there from Afric shores,There Creta’s host and Ituraeans foundFull space to wing their arrows; there the tribesFrom brave Iberia clashed their shields, and thereGaul stood arrayed against her ancient foe.Let all the nations be the victor’s prize,None grace in future a triumphal car;This fight demands the slaughter of a world.
Caesar that day to send his troops for spoilHad left his tent, when on the further hillBehold! his foe descending to the plain.The moment asked for by a thousand prayersIs come, which puts his fortune on the riskOf imminent war, to win or lose it all.For burning with desire of kingly powerHis eager soul ill brooked the small delayThis civil war compelled: each instant lostRobbed from his due! But when at length he knewThe last great conflict come, the fight supreme,Whose prize the leadership of all the world:And felt the ruin nodding to its fall:Swiftest to strike, yet for a little spaceHis rage for battle failed; the spirit boldTo pledge itself the issue, wavered now:For Magnus’ fortunes gave no room for hope,Though Caesar’s none for fear. Deep in his soulSuch doubt was hidden, as with mien and speechThat augured victory, thus the chief began:“Ye conquerors of a world, my hope in all,Prayed for so oft, the dawn of fight is come.No more entreat the gods: with sword in handSeize on our fates; and Caesar in your deedsThis day is great or little. This the dayFor which I hold since Rubicon was passedYour promise given: for this we flew to arms: (12)For this deferred the triumphs we had won,And which the foe refused: this gives you backYour homes and kindred, and the peaceful farm,Your prize for years of service in the field.And by the fates’ command this day shall proveWhose quarrel juster: for defeat is guiltTo him on whom it falls. If in my causeWith fire and sword ye did your country wrong,Strike for acquittal! Should another judgeThis war, not Caesar, none were blameless found.Not for my sake this battle, but for you,To give you, soldiers, liberty and law’Gainst all the world. Wishful myself for lifeApart from public cares, and for the gownThat robes the private citizen, I refuseTo yield from office till the law allowsYour right in all things. On my shoulders restAll blame; all power be yours. Nor deep the bloodBetween yourselves and conquest. Grecian schoolsOf exercise and wrestling (13) send us hereTheir chosen darlings to await your swords;And scarcely armed for war, a dissonant crowdBarbaric, that will start to hear our trump,Nay, their own clamour. Not in civil strifeYour blows shall fall—the battle of to-daySweeps from the earth the enemies of Rome.Dash through these cowards and their vaunted kings:One stroke of sword and all the world is yours.Make plain to all men that the crowds who deckedPompeius’ hundred pageants scarce were fitFor one poor triumph. Shall Armenia careWho leads her masters, or barbarians shedOne drop of blood to make Pompeius chiefO’er our Italia? Rome, ’tis Rome they hateAnd all her children; yet they hate the mostThose whom they know. My fate is in the handsOf you, mine own true soldiers, proved in allThe wars we fought in Gallia. When the swordOf each of you shall strike, I know the hand:The javelin’s flight to me betrays the armThat launched it hurtling: and to-day once moreI see the faces stern, the threatening eyes,Unfailing proofs of victory to come.E’en now the battle rushes on my sight;Kings trodden down and scattered senatorsFill all th’ ensanguined plain, and peoples floatUnnumbered on the crimson tide of death.Enough of words—I but delay the fates;And you who burn to dash into the fray,Forgive the pause. I tremble with the hopes (14)Thus finding utterance. I ne’er have seenThe mighty gods so near; this little fieldAlone dividing us; their hands are fullOf my predestined honours: for ’tis IWho when this war is done shall have the powerO’er all that peoples, all that kings enjoyTo shower it where I will. But has the poleBeen moved, or in its nightly course some starTurned backwards, that such mighty deeds should passHere on Thessalian earth? To-day we reapOf all our wars the harvest or the doom.Think of the cross that threats us, and the chain,Limbs hacked asunder, Caesar’s head displayedUpon the rostra; and that narrow fieldPiled up with slaughter: for this hostile chiefIs savage Sulla’s pupil. ’Tis for you,If conquered, that I grieve: my lot apartIs cast long since. This sword, should one of youTurn from the battle ere the foe be fled,Shall rob the life of Caesar. O ye gods,Drawn down from heaven by the throes of Rome,May he be conqueror who shall not drawAgainst the vanquished an inhuman sword,Nor count it as a crime if men of RomePreferred another’s standard to his own.Pompeius’ sword drank deep Italian bloodWhen cabined in yon space the brave man’s armNo more found room to strike. But you, I pray,Touch not the foe who turns him from the fight,A fellow citizen, a foe no more.But while the gleaming weapons threaten still,Let no fond memories unnerve the arm, (15)No pious thought of father or of kin;But full in face of brother or of sire,Drive home the blade. Unless the slain be knownYour foes account his slaughter as a crime;Spare not our camp, but lay the rampart lowAnd fill the fosse with ruin; not a manBut holds his post within the ranks to-day.And yonder tents, deserted by the foe,Shall give us shelter when the rout is done.”
Scarce had he paused; they snatch the hasty meal,And seize their armour and with swift acclaimWelcome the chief’s predictions of the day,Tread low their camp when rushing to the fight;And take their post: nor word nor order given,In fate they put their trust. Nor, had’st thou placedAll Caesars there, all striving for the throneOf Rome their city, had their serried ranksWith speedier tread dashed down upon the foe.
But when Pompeius saw the hostile troopsMove forth in order and demand the fight,And knew the gods’ approval of the day,He stood astonied, while a deadly chillStruck to his heart—omen itself of woe,That such a chief should at the call to arms,Thus dread the issue: but with fear repressed,Borne on his noble steed along the lineOf all his forces, thus he spake: “The dayYour bravery demands, that final endOf civil war ye asked for, is at hand.Put forth your strength, your all; the sword to-dayDoes its last work. One crowded hour is chargedWith nations’ destinies. Whoe’er of youLongs for his land and home, his wife and child,Seek them with sword. Here in mid battle-field,The gods place all at stake. Our better rightBids us expect their favour; they shall dipYour brands in Caesar’s blood, and thus shall giveAnother sanction to the laws of Rome,Our cause of battle. If for him were meantAn empire o’er the world, had they not putAn end to Magnus’ life? That I am chiefOf all these mingled peoples and of RomeDisproves an angry heaven. See here combinedAll means of victory. Noble men have soughtUnasked the risks of war. Our soldiers boastAncestral statues. If to us were givenA Curius, if Camillus were returned,Or patriot Decius to devote his life,Here would they take their stand. From furthest eastAll nations gathered, cities as the sandUnnumbered, give their aid: a world completeServes ’neath our standards. North and south and allWho have their being ’neath the starry vault,Here meet in arms conjoined: And shall we notCrush with our closing wings this paltry foe?Few shall find room to strike; the rest with voiceMust be content to aid: for Caesar’s ranksSuffice not for us. Think from Rome’s high wallsThe matrons watch you with their hair unbound;Think that the Senate hoar, too old for arms,With snowy locks outspread; and Rome herself,The world’s high mistress, fearing now, alas!A despot—all exhort you to the fight.Think that the people that is and that shall beJoins in the prayer—in freedom to be born,In freedom die, their wish. If ‘mid these vowsBe still found place for mine, with wife and child,So far as Imperator may, I bendBefore you suppliant—unless this fightBe won, behold me exile, your disgrace,My kinsman’s scorn. From this, ’tis yours to save.Then save! Nor in the latest stage of life,Let Magnus be a slave.”
Then burned their soulsAt these his words, indignant at the thought,And Rome rose up within them, and to dieWas welcome.
Thus alike with hearts aflameMoved either host to battle, one in fearAnd one in hope of empire. These hands shall doSuch work as not the rolling centuriesNot all mankind though free from sword and warShall e’er make good. Nations that were to liveThis fight shall crush, and peoples pre-ordainedTo make the history of the coming worldShall come not to the birth. The Latin namesShall sound as fables in the ears of men,And ruins loaded with the dust of yearsShall hardly mark her cities. Alba’s hill,Home of our gods, no human foot shall tread,Save of some Senator at the ancient feastBy Numa’s orders founded—he compelledServes his high office. (16) Void and desolateAre Veii, Cora and Laurentum’s hold;Yet not the tooth of envious time destroyedThese storied monuments—’twas civil warThat rased their citadels. Where now hath fledThe teeming life that once Italia knew?Not all the earth can furnish her with men:Untenanted her dwellings and her fields:Slaves till her soil: one city holds us all:Crumbling to ruin, the ancestral roofFinds none on whom to fall; and Rome herself,Void of her citizens, draws within her gatesThe dregs of all the world. That none might wageA civil war again, thus deeply drankPharsalia’s fight the life-blood of her sons.Dark in the calendar of Rome for aye,The days when Allia and Cannae fell:And shall Pharsalus’ morn, darkest of all,Stand on the page unmarked? Alas, the fates!Not plague nor pestilence nor famine’s rage,Not cities given to the flames, nor townsTrembling at shock of earthquake shall weigh downSuch heroes lost, when Fortune’s ruthless handLops at one blow the gift of centuries,Leaders and men embattled. How great art thou,Rome, in thy fall! Stretched to the widest boundsWar upon war laid nations at thy feetTill flaming Titan nigh to either poleBeheld thine empire; and the furthest eastWas almost thine, till day and night and skyFor thee revolved, and all the stars could seeThroughout their course was Roman. But the fatesIn one dread day of slaughter and despairTurned back the centuries and spoke thy doom.And now the Indian fears the axe no moreOnce emblem of thy power, now no moreThe girded Consul curbs the Getan horde,Or in Sarmatian furrows guides the share: (17)Still Parthia boasts her triumphs unavenged:Foul is the public life; and Freedom, fledTo furthest Earth beyond the Tigris’ stream,And Rhine’s broad river, wandering at her will‘Mid Teuton hordes and Scythian, though by swordSought, yet returns not. Would that from the dayWhen Romulus, aided by the vulture’s flight,Ill-omened, raised within that hateful groveRome’s earliest walls, down to the crimsoned fieldIn dire Thessalia fought, she ne’er had knownItalia’s peoples! Did the Bruti strikeIn vain for liberty? Why laws and rightsSanctioned by all the annals designateWith consular titles? Happier far the MedesAnd blest Arabia, and the Eastern landsHeld by a kindlier fate in despot rule!That nation serves the worst which serves with shame.No guardian gods watch over us from heaven:Jove (18) is no king; let ages whirl alongIn blind confusion: from his throne supremeShall he behold such carnage and restrainHis thunderbolts? On Mimas shall he hurlHis fires, on Rhodope and Oeta’s woodsUnmeriting such chastisement, and leaveThis life to Cassius’ hand? On Argos fellAt grim Thyestes’ feast (19) untimely nightBy him thus hastened; shall Thessalia’s landReceive full daylight, wielding kindred swordsIn fathers’ hands and brothers’? Careless of menAre all the gods. Yet for this day of doomSuch vengeance have we reaped as deitiesMay give to mortals; for these wars shall raiseOur parted Caesars to the gods; and RomeShall deck their effigies with thunderbolts,And stars and rays, and in the very fanesSwear by the shades of men.
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, (20) 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’ slopes (21)Reverberate 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 countless shafts 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.
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 mares (22)When 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 almsAs 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 seek 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? (23) “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. (24) 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 nameThee 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 subduedTo Magnus and to me in grievous guiseMay’st 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. Through forehead and through throatThe pitiless weapon clove its deadly path,Or forced the entrails forth: one 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.
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 sonsWreak 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. (25)
Then upon his steed,Though fearing not the weapons at his back,Pompeius fled, his mighty soul preparedTo meet his destinies. No groan nor tear,But solemn grief as for the fates of Rome,Was in his visage, and with mien unchangedHe saw Pharsalia’s woes, above the frownsOr smiles of Fortune; in triumphant daysAnd in his fall, her master. 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 dies no man. In the fights to comeOn Afric’s mournful shore, by Pharos’ streamAnd fateful Munda; in the final sceneOf dire Pharsalia’s battle, not thy nameDoth stir the war and urge the foeman’s arm,But those great rivals biding with us yet,Caesar and Liberty; and not for theeBut for itself the dying Senate fought,When thou had’st fled the combat.
Find’st thou notSome solace thus in parting from the fightNor seeing all the horrors of its close?Look back upon the dead that load the plain,The rivers turbid with a crimson stream;Then pity thou thy victor. How shall heEnter the city, who on such a fieldFinds happiness? Trust thou in Fortune yet,Her favourite ever; and whate’er, aloneIn lands unknown, an exile, be thy lot,Whate’er thy sufferings ’neath the Pharian king,‘Twere worse to conquer. Then forbid the tear,Cease, sounds of woe, and lamentation cease,And let the world adore thee in defeat,As in thy triumphs. With unfaltering gaze,Look on the suppliant kings, thy subjects still;Search out the realms and cities which they hold,Thy gift, Pompeius; and a fitting placeChoose for thy death.
First witness of thy fall,And of thy noble bearing in defeat,Larissa. Weeping, yet with gifts of priceFit for a victor, from her teeming gatesPoured forth her citizens, their homes and fanesFlung open; wishing it had been their lotWith thee to share disaster. Of thy nameStill much survives, unto thy former selfAlone inferior, still could’st thou to armsAll 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 trodPharsalia’s slaughter, 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.
When Italian bloodFlowed deep enough upon the fatal field,Caesar bade halt, and gave their lives to thoseWhose death had been no gain. But that their 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 spoil;“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 had they 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 meanest soldier; and the murderer layWhere yesternight his brother or his sire.In raving dreams within their waking brainsYet raged the battle, and the guilty handStill wrought its deeds of blood, and restless soughtThe absent sword-hilt. Thou had’st 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 flamesAs from the depths of Acheron. One sawDeep in the trances of the night his sireAnd one his brother slain. But all the deadIn long array were visioned to the eyesOf Caesar dreaming. Not in other guiseOrestes saw the Furies ere he fledTo purge his sin within the Scythian bounds;Nor in more fierce convulsions raged the soulOf Pentheus raving; nor Agavé’s (26) 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 on his couch,Infernal monsters from the depths of hellScourged him in slumber. Thus his guilty mindBrought retribution. Ere his rival diedThe terrors that enfold the Stygian streamAnd black Avernus, and the ghostly slainBroke on his sleep.
Yet when the golden sunUnveiled the butchery of Pharsalia’s field (27)He 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 marksThessalia. 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 should’st deny the pyre, still in that flameWhen all shall crumble, (28) 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 would’st denyThe rites of burial to thousands slain,Why flee thy field of triumph? Why desertThis reeking plain? Drink, Caesar, of the streams,Drink if thou can’st, and should it be thy wishBreathe the Thessalian air; 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 (29) 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, (30) made Philippi pure.
Endnotes:
(1) “It is, methinks, a morning full of fate! It riseth slowly, as her sullen car Had all the weight of sleep and death hung at it! … And her sick head is bound about with clouds As if she threatened night ere noon of day.” —Ben Jonson, “Catiline”, i., 1. (2) See Book VI., 577. (3) As to the sun finding fuel in the clouds, see Book I., line 471. (4) Pompeius triumphed first in 81 B.C. for his victories in Sicily and Africa, at the age of twenty-four. Sulla at first objected, but finally yielded and said, “Let him triumph then in God’s name.” The triumph for the defeat of Sertorius was not till 71 B.C., in which year Pompeius was elected Consul along with Crassus. (Compare Book IX., 709.) (5) These two lines are taken from Ben Jonson’s “Catiline”, act v., scene 6. (6) The volcanic district of Campania, scene of the fabled battle of the giants. (See Book IV., 666.) (7) Henceforth to be the standards of the Emperor. (8) A lake at the foot of Mount Ossa. Pindus, Ossa, Olympus, and, above all, Haemus (the Balkans) were at a long distance from Pharsalia. Comp. Book VI., 677. (9) Gades (Cadiz) is stated to have been founded by the Phoenicians about 1000 B.C. (10) This alludes to the story told by Plutarch (“Caesar”, 47) that, at Patavium, Caius Cornelius, a man reputed for skill in divination, and a friend of Livy the historian, was sitting to watch the birds that day. “And first of all (as Livius says) he discovered the time of the battle, and he said to those present that the affair was now deciding and the men were going into action. Looking again, and observing the signs, he sprang up with enthusiasm and called out, ‘You conquer, Caesar.’” (Long’s translation.) (11) The Fontes Aponi were warm springs near Padua. An altar, inscribed to Apollo Aponus, was found at Ribchester, and is now at St. John’s College, Cambridge. (Wright, “Celt, Roman, and Saxon”, p. 320.) (12) See Book I., 411, and following lines. (13) For the contempt here expressed for the Greek gymnastic schools, see also Tacitus, “Annals”, 14, 21. It is well known that Nero instituted games called Neronia which were borrowed from the Greeks; and that many of the Roman citizens despised them as foreign and profligate. Merivale, chapter liii., cites this passage. (14) Thus paraphrased by Dean Stanley: “I tremble not with terror, but with hope, As the great day reveals its coming scope; Never in earlier days, our hearts to cheer, Have such bright gifts of Heaven been brought so near, Nor ever has been kept the aspiring soul By space so narrow from so grand a goal.” Inaugural address at St. Andrews. 1873, on the “Study of Greatness”. (15) That such were Caesar’s orders is also attested by Appian. (16) See Book V., 463. (17) That is, marked out the new colony with a plough-share. This was regarded as a religious ceremony, and therefore performed by the Consul with his toga worn in ancient fashion. (18) “Hath Jove no thunder?”—Ben Jonson, “Catiline”, iii., 2. (19) Compare Book I., line 600. (20) This act of Crastinus is recorded by Plutarch (“Pompeius”, 71), and by Caesar, “Civil War”, Book III., 91. Caesar called him by name and said: “Well, Crastinus, shall we win today?” “We shall win with glory, Caesar,” he replied in a loud voice, “and to-day you will praise me, living or dead.” —Durny, “History of Rome”, vol. iii., 312. He was placed in a special tomb after the battle. (21) See on line 203. (22) That is, lashes on his team terrified by the Gorgon shield in the ranks of the enemy. (23) Plutarch states that Brutus after the battle escaped and made his way to Larissa, whence he wrote to Caesar. Caesar, pleased that he was alive, asked him to come to him; and it was on Brutus’ opinion that Caesar determined to hurry to Egypt as the most probable refuge of Pompeius. Caesar entrusted Brutus with the command of Cisalpine Gaul when he was in Africa. (24) “He perished, after a career of furious partisanship, disgraced with cruelty and treachery, on the field of Pharsalia” (Merivale, “Hist. Romans under the Empire”, chapter lii.). Unless this man had been an ancestor of Nero it is impossible to suppose that Lucan would have thus singled him out. But he appears to have been the only leader who fell. (Compare Book II, lines 534–590, for his conduct at Corfinium.) (25) This appears to be the only possible meaning of the text. But in truth, although Cornelia was not by her husband’s side at his murder, she was present at the scene. (26) See Book VI., 420. (27) The whole of this passage is foreign to Caesar’s character, and unfounded in fact. Pompeians perished on the field, and were taken prisoners. When Caesar passed over the field he is recorded to have said in pity, “They would have it so; after all my exploits I should have been condemned to death had I not thrown myself upon the protection of my soldiers.” —Plutarch, “Caesar”; Durny, “History of Rome”, vol. iii., p. 311. (28) Alluding to the general conflagration in which (by the Stoic doctrines) all the universe would one day perish. (29) Wrongly supposed by Lucan to feed on carrion. (30) Alluding to the naval war waged by Sextus Pompeius after Caesar’s death. He took possession of Sicily, and had command of the seas, but was ultimately defeated by the fleet of Octavius under Agrippa in B.C. 36. Pachynus was the S.E. promontory of the island, but is used in the sense of Sicily, for this battle took place on the north coast.