They decree the crime:Proud is the boyish tyrant that so soonHis slaves permit him to so great a deedTo give his favouring voice; and for the workThey choose Achillas.
Where the treacherous shoreRuns out in sand below the Casian mountAnd where the shallow waters of the seaAttest the Syrtes near, in little boatAchillas and his partners in the crimeWith swords embark. Ye gods! and shall the NileAnd barbarous Memphis and th' effeminate crewThat throngs Pelusian Canopus raiseIts thoughts to such an enterprise? Do thusOur fates press on the world? Is Rome thus fallenThat in our civil frays the Phaxian swordFinds place, or Egypt? O, may civil warBe thus far faithful that the hand which strikesBe of our kindred; and the foreign fiendHeld worlds apart! Pompeius, great in soul,Noble in spirit, had deserved a deathFrom Caesar's self. And, king, hast thou no fearAt such a ruin of so great a name?And dost thou dare when heaven's high thunder rolls,Thou, puny boy, to mingle with its tonesThine impure utterance? Had he not wonA world by arms, and thrice in triumph scaledThe sacred Capitol, and vanquished kings,And championed the Roman Senate's cause;He, kinsman of the victor? 'Twas enoughTo cause forbearance in a Pharian king,That he was Roman. Wherefore with thy swordDost stab our breasts? Thou know'st not, impious boy,How stand thy fortunes; now no more by rightHast thou the sceptre of the land of Nile;For prostrate, vanquished in the civil warsIs he who gave it.
Furling now his sails,Magnus with oars approached th' accursed land,When in their little boat the murderous crewDrew nigh, and feigning from th' Egyptian courtA ready welcome, blamed the double tidesBroken by shallows, and their scanty beachUnfit for fleets; and bade him to their craftLeaving his loftier ship. Had not the fates'Eternal and unalterable lawsCalled for their victim and decreed his endNow near at hand, his comrades' warning voiceYet might have stayed his course: for if the courtTo Magnus, who bestowed the Pharian crown,In truth were open, should not king and fleetIn pomp have come to greet him? But he yields:The fates compel. Welcome to him was deathRather than fear. But, rushing to the side,His spouse would follow, for she dared not stay,Fearing the guile. Then he, "Abide, my wife,And son, I pray you; from the shore afarAwait my fortunes; mine shall be the lifeTo test their honour." But Cornelia stillWithstood his bidding, and with arms outspreadFrenzied she cried: "And whither without me,Cruel, departest? Thou forbad'st me shareThy risks Thessalian; dost again commandThat I should part from thee? No happy starBreaks on our sorrow. If from every landThou dost debar me, why didst turn asideIn flight to Lesbos? On the waves aloneAm I thy fit companion?" Thus in vain,Leaning upon the bulwark, dazed with dread;Nor could she turn her straining gaze aside,Nor see her parting husband. All the fleetStood silent, anxious, waiting for the end:Not that they feared the murder which befell,But lest their leader might with humble prayerKneel to the king he made.
As Magnus passed,A Roman soldier from the Pharian boat,Septimius, salutes him. Gods of heaven!There stood he, minion to a barbarous king,Nor bearing still the javelin of Rome;But vile in all his arms; giant in formFierce, brutal, thirsting as a beast may thirstFor carnage. Didst thou, Fortune, for the sakeOf nations, spare to dread Pharsalus fieldThis savage monster's blows? Or dost thou placeThroughout the world, for thy mysterious ends,Some ministering swords for civil war?Thus, to the shame of victors and of gods,This story shall be told in days to come:A Roman swordsman, once within thy ranks,Slave to the orders of a puny prince,Severed Pompeius' neck. And what shall beSeptimius' fame hereafter? By what nameThis deed be called, if Brutus wrought a crime?
Now came the end, the latest hour of all:Rapt to the boat was Magnus, of himselfNo longer master, and the miscreant crewUnsheathed their swords; which when the chieftain sawHe swathed his visage, for he scorned unveiledTo yield his life to fortune; closed his eyesAnd held his breath within him, lest some word,Or sob escaped, might mar the deathless fameHis deeds had won. And when within his sideAchillas plunged his blade, nor sound nor cryHe gave, but calm consented to the blowAnd proved himself in dying; in his breastThese thoughts revolving: "In the years to comeMen shall make mention of our Roman toils,Gaze on this boat, ponder the Pharian faith;And think upon thy fame and all the yearsWhile fortune smiled: but for the ills of lifeHow thou could'st bear them, this men shall not knowSave by thy death. Then weigh thou not the shameThat waits on thine undoing. Whose strikes,The blow is Caesar's. Men may tear this frameAnd cast it mangled to the winds of heaven;Yet have I prospered, nor can all the godsCall back my triumphs. Life may bring defeat,But death no misery. If my spouse and sonBehold me murdered, silently the moreI suffer: admiration at my deathShall prove their love." Thus did Pompeius die,Guarding his thoughts.
But now Cornelia filledThe air with lamentations at the sight;"O, husband, whom my wicked self hath slain!That lonely isle apart thy bane hath beenAnd stayed thy coming. Caesar to the NileHas won before us; for what other handMay do such work? But whosoe'er thou artSent from the gods with power, for Caesar's ire,Or thine own sake, to slay, thou dost not knowWhere lies the heart of Magnus. Haste and do!Such were his prayer — no other punishmentBefits the conquered. Yet let him ere his endSee mine, Cornelia's. On me the blameOf all these wars, who sole of Roman wivesFollowed my spouse afield nor feared the fates;And in disaster, when the kings refused,Received and cherished him. Did I deserveThus to be left of thee, and didst thou seekTo spare me? And when rushing on thine endWas I to live? Without the monarch's helpDeath shall be mine, either by headlong leapBeneath the waters; or some sailor's handShall bind around this neck the fatal cord;Or else some comrade, worthy of his chief,Drive to my heart his blade for Magnus' sake,And claim the service done to Ceasar's arms.What! does your cruelty withhold my fate?Ah! still he lives, nor is it mine as yetTo win this freedom; they forbid me death,Kept for the victor's triumph." Thus she spake,While friendly hands upheld her fainting form;And sped the trembling vessel from the shore.
Men say that Magnus, when the deadly blowsFell thick upon him, lost nor form divine,Nor venerated mien; and as they gazedUpon his lacerated head they markedStill on his features anger with the gods.Nor death could change his visage — for in actOf striking, fierce Septimius' murderous hand(Thus making worse his crime) severed the foldsThat swathed the face, and seized the noble headAnd drooping neck ere yet was fled the life:Then placed upon the bench; and with his bladeSlow at its hideous task, and blows unskilledHacked through the flesh and brake the knotted bone:For yet man had not learned by swoop of swordDeftly to lop the neck. Achillas claimedThe gory head dissevered. What! shalt thouA Roman soldier, while thy blade yet reeksFrom Magnus' slaughter, play the second partTo this base varlet of the Pharian king?Nor bear thyself the bleeding trophy home?Then, that the impious boy (ah! shameful fate)Might know the features of the hero slain,Seized by the locks, the dread of kings, which wavedUpon his stately front, on Pharian pikeThe head was lifted; while almost the lifeGave to the tongue its accents, and the eyesWere yet scarce glazed: that head at whose commandWas peace or war, that tongue whose eloquent tonesWould move assemblies, and that noble browOn which were showered the rewards of Rome.Nor to the tyrant did the sight sufficeTo prove the murder done. The perishing flesh,The tissues, and the brain he bids removeBy art nefarious: the shrivelled skinDraws tight upon the bone; and poisonous juiceGives to the face its lineaments in death.
Last of thy race, thou base degenerate boy,About to perish (20) soon, and yield the throneTo thine incestuous sister; while the PrinceFrom Macedon here in consecrated vaultNow rests, and ashes of the kings are closedIn mighty pyramids, and lofty tombsOf thine unworthy fathers mark the graves;Shall Magnus' body hither and thither borneBe battered, headless, by the ocean wave?Too much it troubled thee to guard the corseUnmutilated, for his kinsman's eyeTo witness! Such the faith which Fortune keptWith prosperous Pompeius to the end.'Twas not for him in evil days some rayOf light to hope for. Shattered from the heightOf power in one short moment to his death!Years of unbroken victories balanced downBy one day's carnage! In his happy timeHeaven did not harass him, nor did she spareIn misery. Long Fortune held the handThat dashed him down. Now beaten by the sands,Torn upon rocks, the sport of ocean's wavesPoured through its wounds, his headless carcase lies,Save by the lacerated trunk unknown.
Yet ere the victor touched the Pharian sandsSome scanty rites to Magnus Fortune gave,Lest he should want all burial. Pale with fearCame Cordus, hasting from his hiding place;Quaestor, he joined Pompeius on thy shore,Idalian Cyprus, bringing in his trainA cloud of evils. Through the darkening shadesLove for the dead compelled his trembling steps,Hard by the marin of the deep to searchAnd drag to land his master. Through the cloudsThe moon shone sadly, and her rays were dim;But by its hue upon the hoary mainHe knew the body. In a fast embraceHe holds it, wrestling with the greedy sea,And deftly watching for a refluent waveGains help to bring his burden to the land.Then clinging to the loved remains, the woundsWashed with his tears, thus to the gods he speaks,And misty stars obscure: "Here, Fortune, liesPompeius, thine: no costly incense rareOr pomp of funeral he dares to ask;Nor that the smoke rise heavenward from his pyreWith eastern odours rich; nor that the necksOf pious Romans bear him to the tomb,Their parent; while the forums shall resoundWith dirges; nor that triumphs won of yoreBe borne before him; nor for sorrowing hostsTo cast their weapons forth. Some little shellHe begs as for the meanest, laid in whichHis mutilated corse may reach the flame.Grudge not his misery the pile of woodLit by this menial hand. Is't not enoughThat his Cornelia with dishevelled hairWeeps not beside him at his obsequies,Nor with a last embrace shall place the torchBeneath her husband dead, but on the deepHard by still wanders?"
Burning from afarHe sees the pyre of some ignoble youthDeserted of his own, with none to guard:And quickly drawing from beneath the limbsSome glowing logs, "Whoe'er thou art," he said"Neglected shade, uncared for, dear to none,Yet happier than Pompeius in thy death,Pardon I ask that this my stranger handShould violate thy tomb. Yet if to shadesBe sense or memory, gladly shalt thou yieldThis from thy pyre to Magnus. 'Twere thy shame,Blessed with due burial, if his remainsWere homeless." Speaking thus, the wood aflameBack to the headless trunk at speed he bore,Which hanging on the margin of the deep,Almost the sea had won. In sandy trenchThe gathered fragments of a broken boat,Trembling, he placed around the noble limbs.No pile above the corpse nor under lay,Nor was the fire beneath. Then as he crouchedBeside the blaze, "O, greatest chief," he cried,Majestic champion of Hesperia's name,If to be tossed unburied on the deepRather than these poor rites thy shade prefer,From these mine offices thy mighty soulWithdraw, Pompeius. Injuries dealt by fateCommand this duty, lest some bird or beastOr ocean monster, or fierce Caesar's wrathShould venture aught upon thee. Take the fire;All that thou canst; by Roman hand at leastEnkindled. And should Fortune grant returnTo loved Hesperia's land, not here shall restThy sacred ashes; but within an urnCornelia, from this humble hand received,Shall place them. Here upon a meagre stoneWe draw the characters to mark thy tomb.These letters reading may some kindly friendBring back thine head, dissevered, and may grantFull funeral honours to thine earthly frame."
Then did he cherish the enfeebled fireTill Magnus' body mingled with its flames.But now the harbinger of coming dawnHad paled the constellations: he in fearSeeks for his hiding place. Whom dost thou dread,Madman, what punishment for such a crime,For which thy fame by rumour trumpet-tonguedHas been sent down to ages? Praise is thineFor this thy work, at impious Caesar's hands;Sure of a pardon, go; confess thy task,And beg the head dissevered. But his workWas still unfinished, and with pious hand(Fearing some foe) he seizes on the bonesNow half consumed, and sinews; and the wavePours in upon them, and in shallow trenchCommits them to the earth; and lest some breezeMight bear away the ashes, or by chanceSome sailor's anchor might disturb the tomb,A stone he places, and with stick half burnedTraces the sacred name: HERE MAGNUS LIES.
And art thou, Fortune, pleased that such a spotShould be his tomb which even Caesar's selfHad chosen, rather than permit his corseTo rest unburied? Why, with thoughtless handConfine his shade within the narrow boundsOf this poor sepulchre? Where the furthest sandHangs on the margin of the baffled deepCabined he lies; yet where the Roman nameIs known, and Empire, such in truth shall beThe boundless measure of his resting-place.Blot out this stone, this proof against the gods!Oeta finds room for Hercules alone,And Nysa's mountain for the Bromian god; (21)Not all the lands of Egypt should sufficeFor Magnus dead: and shall one Pharian stoneMark his remains? Yet should no turf discloseHis title, peoples of the earth would fearTo spurn his ashes, and the sands of NileNo foot would tread. But if the stone deservesSo great a name, then add his mighty deeds:Write Lepidus conquered and the Alpine war,And fierce Sertorius by his aiding armO'erthrown; the chariots which as knight he drove; (22)Cilician pirates driven from the main,And Commerce safe to nations; Eastern kingsDefeated and the barbarous Northern tribes;Write that from arms he ever sought the robe;Write that content upon the CapitolThrice only triumphed he, nor asked his due.What mausoleum were for such a chiefA fitting monument? This paltry stoneRecords no syllable of the lengthy taleOf honours: and the name which men have readUpon the sacred temples of the gods,And lofty arches built of hostile spoils,On desolate sands here marks his lowly graveWith characters uncouth, such as the glanceOf passing traveller or Roman guestMight pass unnoticed.
Thou Egyptian landBy destiny foredoomed to bear a partIn civil warfare, not unreasoning sangHigh Cumae's prophetess, when she forbad (23)The stream Pelusian to the Roman arms,And all the banks which in the summer-tideAre covered by his flood. What grievous fateShall I call down upon thee? May the NileTurn back his water to his source, thy fieldsWant for the winter rain, and all the landCrumble to desert wastes! We in our fanesHave known thine Isis and thy hideous gods,Half hounds, half human, and the drum that bidsTo sorrow, and Osiris, whom thy dirge (24)Proclaims for man. Thou, Egypt, in thy sandOur dead containest. Nor, though her temples nowServe a proud master, yet has Rome requiredPompeius' ashes: in a foreign landStill lies her chief. But though men feared at firstThe victor's vengeance, now at length receiveThy Magnus' bones, if still the restless waveHath not prevailed upon that hated shore.Shall men have fear of tombs and dread to moveThe dust of those who should be with the gods?O, may my country place the crime on me,If crime it be, to violate such a tombOf such a hero, and to bear his dustHome to Ausonia. Happy, happy heWho bears such holy office in his trust! (25)Haply when famine rages in the landOr burning southern winds, or fires aboundAnd earthquake shocks, and Rome shall pray an endFrom angry heaven — by the gods' command,In council given, shalt thou be transferredTo thine own city, and the priest shall bearThy sacred ashes to their last abode.
Who now may seek beneath the raging CrabOr hot Syene's waste, or Thebes athirstUnder the rainy Pleiades, to gazeOn Nile's broad stream; or whose may exchangeOn the Red Sea or in Arabian portsSome Eastern merchandise, shall turn in aweTo view the venerable stone that marksThy grave, Pompeius; and shall worship moreThy dust commingled with the arid sand,Thy shade though exiled, than the fane upreared (26)On Casius' mount to Jove! In temples shrinedAnd gold, thy memory were viler deemed:Fortune lies with thee in thy lowly tombAnd makes thee rival of Olympus' king.More awful is that stone by Libyan seasLashed, than are Conquerors' altars. There in earthA deity rests to whom all men shall bowMore than to gods Tarpeian: and his nameShall shine the brighter in the days to comeFor that no marble tomb about him standsNor lofty monument. That little dustTime shall soon scatter and the tomb shall fallAnd all the proofs shall perish of his death.And happier days shall come when men shall gazeUpon the stone, nor yet believe the tale:And Egypt's fable, that she holds the graveOf great Pompeius, be believed no moreThan Crete's which boasts the sepulchre of Jove. (27)
(1) Comp. Book VI., line 407. (2) Comp. Book III., line 256. (3) Canopus is a star in Argo, invisible in Italy. (Haskins.) (4) Sextus. (5) Tetrarch of Galatia. He was always friendly to Rome, and in the civil war sided with Pompeius. He was at Pharsalia. (6) A Scythian people. (7) Pompeius seems to have induced the Roman public to believe that he had led his armies to such extreme distances, but he never in fact did so. — Mommsen, vol. iv. p. 147. (8) Juba was of supposed collateral descent from Hannibal. (Haskins, quoting "The Scholiast.") (9) Confusing the Red Sea with the Persian Gulf. (10) Balkh of modern times. Bactria was one of the kingdoms established by the successors of Alexander the Great. It was, however, subdued by the Parthians about the middle of the third century B.C. (11) Dion could not believe it possible that Pompeius ever contemplated taking refuge in Parthia, but Plutarch states it as a fact; and says that it was Theophanes of Lesbos who dissuaded him from doing so. ("Pompeius", 76). Mommsen (vol. iv., pp. 421-423) discusses the subject, and says that from Parthia only could Pompeius have attempted to seek support, and that such an attempt, putting the objections to it aside, would probably have failed. Lucan's sympathies were probably with Lentulus. (12) Probably Lucius Lentulus Crus, who had been Consul, for B.C. 49, along with Caius Marcellus. (See Book V., 9.) He was murdered in Egypt by Ptolemy's ministers. (13) That is, be as easily defended. (14) Thus rendered by Sir Thomas May, of the Long Parliament: "Men used to sceptres are ashamed of nought: The mildest governement a kingdome finds Under new kings." (15) That is, he reached the most eastern mouth of the Nile instead of the western. (16) At Memphis was the well in which the rise and fall of the water acted as a Nilometer (Mr. Haskins's note). (17) Comp. Herodotus, Book iii. 27. Apis was a god who appeared at intervals in the shape of a calf with a white mark on his brow. His appearance was the occasion of general rejoicing. Cambyses slew the Apis which came in his time, and for this cause became mad, as the Egyptians said. (18) That is, by Achoreus, who had just spoken. (19) Compare Ben Jonson's "Sejanus", Act ii., Scene 2: — The prince who shames a tyrant's name to bear Shall never dare do anything, but fear; All the command of sceptres quite doth perish If it begin religious thoughts to cherish; Whole empires fall, swayed by these nice respects, It is the licence of dark deeds protects E'en states most hated, when no laws resist The sword, but that it acteth what it list." (20) He was drowned in attempting to escape in the battle on the Nile in the following autumn. (21) Dionysus. But this god, though brought up by the nymphs of Mount Nysa, was not supposed to have been buried there. (22) See Book VII., line 20. (23) This warning of the Sibyl is also alluded to by Cicero in a letter to P. Lentulus, Proconsul of Cilicia. (Mr. Haskins' note. See also Mommsen, vol. iv., p. 305.) It seems to have been discovered in the Sibylline books at the time when it was desired to prevent Pompeius from interfering in the affairs of Egypt, in B.C. 57. (24) That is, by their weeping for Iris departure they treated him as a mortal and not as a god. Osiris was the soul of Apis (see on line 537), and when that animal grew old and unfit for the residence of Osiris the latter was thought to quit it. Then began the weeping. which continued until a new Apis appeared, selected, of course, by Osiris for his dwelling-place. Then they called out "We have found him, let us rejoice." For a discussion on the Egyptian conception of Osiris, and Iris place in the theogony of that nation, see Hegel's "Lectures on the Philosophy of History": Chapter on Egypt. (25) It may be noted that the Emperor Hadrian raised a monument on the spot to the memory of Pompeius some sixty years after this was written (Durny's 'History of Rome,' iii., 319). Plutarch states that Cornelia had the remains taken to Rome and interred in a mausoleum. Lucan, it may be supposed, knew nothing of this. (26) There was a temple to Jupiter on "Mount Casius old". (27) The legend that Jove was buried in Crete is also mentioned by Cicero: "De Natura Deorum", iii., 21.
Yet in those ashes on the Pharian shore,In that small heap of dust, was not confinedSo great a shade; but from the limbs half burntAnd narrow cell sprang forth (1) and sought the skyWhere dwells the Thunderer. Black the space of airUpreaching to the poles that bear on highThe constellations in their nightly round;There 'twixt the orbit of the moon and earthAbide those lofty spirits, half divine,Who by their blameless lives and fire of soulAre fit to tolerate the pure expanseThat bounds the lower ether: there shall dwell,Where nor the monument encased in gold,Nor richest incense, shall suffice to bringThe buried dead, in union with the spheres,Pompeius' spirit. When with heavenly lightHis soul was filled, first on the wandering starsAnd fixed orbs he bent his wondering gaze;Then saw what darkness veils our earthly dayAnd scorned the insults heaped upon his corse.Next o'er Emathian plains he winged his flight,And ruthless Caesar's standards, and the fleetTossed on the deep: in Brutus' blameless breastTarried awhile, and roused his angered soulTo reap the vengeance; last possessed the mindOf haughty Cato.
He while yet the scalesWere poised and balanced, nor the war had givenThe world its master, hating both the chiefs,Had followed Magnus for the Senate's causeAnd for his country: since Pharsalia's fieldRan red with carnage, now was all his heartBound to Pompeius. Rome in him receivedHer guardian; a people's trembling limbsHe cherished with new hope and weapons gaveBack to the craven hands that cast them forth.Nor yet for empire did he wage the warNor fearing slavery: nor in arms achievedAught for himself: freedom, since Magnus fell,The aim of all his host. And lest the foeIn rapid course triumphant should collectHis scattered bands, he sought Corcyra's gulfsConcealed, and thence in ships unnumbered boreThe fragments of the ruin wrought in Thrace.Who in such mighty armament had thoughtA routed army sailed upon the mainThronging the sea with keels? Round Malea's capeAnd Taenarus open to the shades belowAnd fair Cythera's isle, th' advancing fleetSweeps o'er the yielding wave, by northern breezeBorne past the Cretan shores. But Phycus daredRefuse her harbour, and th' avenging handLeft her in ruins. Thus with gentle airsThey glide along the main and reach the shoreFrom Palinurus (2) named; for not aloneOn seas Italian, Pilot of the deep,Hast thou thy monument; and Libya tooClaims that her waters pleased thy soul of yore.Then in the distance on the main aroseThe shining canvas of a stranger fleet,Or friend or foe they knew not. Yet they dreadIn every keel the presence of that chiefTheir fear-compelling conqueror. But in truthThat navy tears and sorrow bore, and woesTo make e'en Cato weep.
For when in vainCornelia prayed her stepson and the crewTo stay their flight, lest haply from the shoreBack to the sea might float the headless corse;And when the flame arising marked the placeOf that unhallowed rite, "Fortune, didst thouJudge me unfit," she cried, "to light the pyreTo cast myself upon the hero dead,The lock to sever, and compose the limbsTossed by the cruel billows of the deep,To shed a flood of tears upon his wounds,And from the flickering flame to bear awayAnd place within the temples of the godsAll that I could, his dust? That pyre bestowsNo honour, haply by some Pharian handPiled up in insult to his mighty shade.Happy the Crassi lying on the wasteUnburied. To the greater shame of heavenPompeius has such funeral. And shall thisFor ever be my lot? her husbands slainCornelia ne'er enclose within the tomb,Nor shed the tear beside the urn that holdsThe ashes of the loved? Yet for my griefWhat boots or monument or ordered pomp?Dost thou not, impious, upon thy heartPompeius' image, and upon thy soulBear ineffaceable? Dust closed in urnsIs for the wife who would survive her lordNot such as thee, Cornelia! And yetYon scanty light that glimmers from afarUpon the Pharian shore, somewhat of theeRecalls, Pompeius! Now the flame sinks downAnd smoke drifts up across the eastern skyBearing thine ashes, and the rising windSighs hateful in the sail. To me no moreDearer than this whatever land may yieldPompeius' victory, nor the frequent carThat carried him in triumph to the hill;Gone is that happy husband from my thoughts;Here did I lose the hero whom I knew;Here let me stay; his presence shall endearThe sands of Nile where fell the fatal blow.Thou, Sextus, brave the chances of the warAnd bear Pompeius' standard through the world.For thus thy father spake within mine ear:'When sounds my fatal hour let both my sonsUrge on the war; nor let some Caesar findRoom for an empire, while shall live on earthStill one in whom Pompeius' blood shall run.This your appointed task; all cities strongIn freedom of their own, all kingdoms urgeTo join the combat; for Pompeius calls.Nor shall a chieftain of that famous nameRide on the seas and fail to find a fleet.Urged by his sire's unconquerable willAnd mindful of his rights, mine heir shall rouseAll nations to the conflict. One alone,(Should he contend for freedom) may ye serve;Cato, none else!' Thus have I kept the faith;Thy plot (3) prevailed upon me, and I livedThy mandate to discharge. Now through the voidOf space, and shades of Hell, if such there be,I follow; yet how distant be my doomI know not: first my spirit must endureThe punishment of life, which saw thine endAnd could survive it; sighs shall break my heart,Tears shall dissolve it: sword nor noose I needNor headlong plunge. 'Twere shameful since thy death,Were aught but grief required to cause my own."
She seeks the cabin, veiled, in funeral garb,In tears to find her solace, and to loveGrief in her husband's room; no prayers were hersFor life, as were the sailors'; nor their shoutRoused by the height of peril, moved her soul,Nor angered waves: but sorrowing there she lay,Resigned to death and welcoming the storm.
First reached they Cyprus on the foamy brine;Then as the eastern breeze more gently heldThe favouring deep, they touched the Libyan shoreWhere stood the camp of Cato. Sad as oneWho deep in fear presages ills to come,Cnaeus beheld his brother and his bandOf patriot comrades. Swift into the waveHe leaps and cries, "Where, brother, is our sire?Still stands our country mistress of the world,Or are we fallen, Rome with Magnus' deathRapt to the shades?" Thus he: but Sextus said
"Oh happy thou who by report aloneHear'st of the deed that chanced on yonder shore!These eyes that saw, my brother, share the guilt.Not Caesar wrought the murder of our sire,Nor any captain worthy in the fray.He fell beneath the orders of a kingShameful and base, while trusting to the godsWho shield the guest; a king who in that landBy his concession ruled: (this the rewardFor favours erst bestowed). Within my sightPierced through with wounds our noble father fell:Yet deeming not the petty prince of NileSo fell a deed would dare, to Egypt's strandI thought great Caesar come. But worse than all,Worse than the wounds which gaped upon his frameStruck me with horror to the inmost heart,Our murdered father's head, shorn from the trunkAnd borne aloft on javelin; this sight,As rumour said, the cruel victor askedTo feast his eyes, and prove the bloody deed.For whether ravenous birds and Pharian dogsHave torn his corse asunder, or a fireConsumed it, which with stealthy flame aroseUpon the shore, I know not. For the partsDevoured by destiny I only blameThe gods: I weep the part preserved by men."
Thus Sextus spake: and Cnaeus at the wordsFlamed into fury for his father's shame."Sailors, launch forth our navies, by your oarsForced through the deep though wind and sea oppose:Captains, lead on: for civil strife ne'er gaveSo great a prize; to lay in earth the limbsOf Magnus, and avenge him with the bloodOf that unmanly tyrant. Shall I spareGreat Alexander's fort, nor sack the shrineAnd plunge his body in the tideless marsh?Nor drag Amasis from the Pyramids,And all their ancient Kings, to swim the Nile?Torn from his tomb, that god of all mankindIsis, unburied, shall avenge thy shade;And veiled Osiris shall I hurl abroadIn mutilated fragments; and the formOf sacred Apis; (4) and with these their godsShall light a furnace, that shall burn the headThey held in insult. Thus their land shall payThe fullest penalty for the shameful deed.No husbandman shall live to till the fieldsNor reap the benefit of brimming Nile.Thou only, Father, gods and men alikeFallen and perished, shalt possess the land."
Such were the words he spake; and soon the fleetHad dared the angry deep: but Cato's voiceWhile praising, calmed the youthful chieftain's rage.
Meanwhile, when Magnus' fate was known, the airSounded with lamentations which the shoreRe-echoed; never through the ages past,By history recorded, was it knownThat thus a people mourned their ruler's death.Yet more when worn with tears, her pallid cheekVeiled by her loosened tresses, from the shipCornelia came, they wept and beat the breast.The friendly land once gained, her husband's garb,His arms and spoils, embroidered deep in gold,Thrice worn of old upon the sacred hill (5)She placed upon the flame. Such were for herThe ashes of her spouse: and such the loveWhich glowed in every heart, that soon the shoreBlazed with his obsequies. Thus at winter-tideBy frequent fires th' Apulian herdsman seeksTo render to the fields their verdant growth;Till blaze Garganus' uplands and the meadsOf Vultur, and the pasture of the herdsBy warm Matinum.
Yet Pompeius' shadeNought else so gratified, not all the blameThe people dared to heap upon the gods,For him their hero slain, as these few wordsFrom Cato's noble breast instinct with truth:"Gone is a citizen who though no peer (6)Of those who disciplined the state of yoreIn due submission to the bounds of right,Yet in this age irreverent of lawHas played a noble part. Great was his power,But freedom safe: when all the plebs was proneTo be his slaves, he chose the private gown;So that the Senate ruled the Roman state,The Senate's ruler: nought by right of armsHe e'er demanded: willing took he giftsYet from a willing giver: wealth was hisVast, yet the coffers of the State he filledBeyond his own. He seized upon the sword,Knew when to sheath it; war did he preferTo arts of peace, yet armed loved peace the more.Pleased took he power, pleased he laid it down:Chaste was his home and simple, by his wealthUntarnished. Mid the peoples great his nameAnd venerated: to his native RomeHe wrought much good. True faith in libertyLong since with Marius and Sulla fled:Now when Pompeius has been reft awayIts counterfeit has perished. Now unshamedShall seize the despot on Imperial power,Unshamed shall cringe the Senate. Happy heWho with disaster found his latest breathAnd met the Pharian sword prepared to slay.Life might have been his lot, in despot rule,Prone at his kinsman's throne. Best gift of allThe knowledge how to die; next, death compelled.If cruel Fortune doth reserve for meAn alien conqueror, may Juba beAs Ptolemaeus. So he take my headMy body grace his triumph, if he will."More than had Rome resounded with his praiseWords such as these gave honour to the shadeOf that most noble dead.
Meanwhile the crowdWeary of warfare, since Pompeius' fall,Broke into discord, as their ancient chiefCilician called them to desert the camp.But Cato hailed them from the furthest beach:"Untamed Cilician, is thy course now setFor Ocean theft again; Pompeius gone,Once more a pirate?" Thus he spake, and gazedAt all the stirring throng; but one whose mindWas fixed on flight, thus answered, "Pardon, chief,'Twas love of Magnus, not of civil war,That led us to the fight: his side was ours:With him whom all the world preferred to peace,Our cause is perished. Let us seek our homesLong since unseen, our children and our wives.If nor the rout nor dread Pharsalia's fieldNor yet Pompeius' death shall close the war,Whence comes the end? The vigour of a lifeFor us is vanished: in our failing yearsGive us at least some pious hand to speedThe parting soul, and light the funeral pyre.Scarce even to its captains civil strifeConcedes due burial. Nor in our defeatDoes Fortune threaten us with the savage yokeOf distant nations. In the garb of RomeAnd with her rights, I leave thee. Who had beenSecond to Magnus living, he shall beMy first hereafter: to that sacred shadeBe the prime honour. Chance of war appointsMy lord but not my leader. Thee aloneI followed, Magnus; after thee the fates.Nor hope we now for victory, nor wish;For all our Thracian army is fledIn Caesar's victory, whose potent starOf fortune rules the world, and none but heHas power to keep or save. That civil warWhich while Pompeius lived was loyaltyIs impious now. If in the public rightThou, patriot Cato, find'st thy guide, we seekThe standards of the Consul." Thus he spakeAnd with him leaped into the ship a throngOf eager comrades.
Then was Rome undone,For all the shore was stirring with a crowdAthirst for slavery. But burst these wordsFrom Cato's blameless breast: "Then with like vowsAs Caesar's rival host ye too did seekA lord and master! not for Rome the fight,But for Pompeius! For that now no moreYe fight for tyranny, but for yourselves,Not for some despot chief, ye live and die;Since now 'tis safe to conquer and no lordShall rob you, victors, of a world subdued —Ye flee the war, and on your abject necksFeel for the absent yoke; nor can endureWithout a despot! Yet to men the prizeWere worth the danger. Magnus might have usedTo evil ends your blood; refuse ye now,With liberty so near, your country's call?Now lives one tyrant only of the three;Thus far in favour of the laws have wroughtThe Pharian weapons and the Parthian bow;Not you, degenerate! Begone, and spurnThis gift of Ptolemaeus. (8) Who would thinkYour hands were stained with blood? The foe will deemThat you upon that dread Thessalian dayFirst turned your backs. Then flee in safety, flee!By neither battle nor blockade subduedCaesar shall give you life! O slaves most base,Your former master slain, ye seek his heir!Why doth it please you not yet more to earnThan life and pardon? Bear across the seaMetellus' daughter, Magnus' weeping spouse,And both his sons; outstrip the Pharian gift,Nor spare this head, which, laid before the feetOf that detested tyrant, shall deserveA full reward. Thus, cowards, shall ye learnIn that ye followed me how great your gain.Quick to your task and purchase thus with bloodYour claim on Caesar. Dastardly is flightWhich crime commends not."
Cato thus recalledThe parting vessels. So when bees in swarmDesert their waxen cells, forget the hiveCeasing to cling together, and with wingsUntrammelled seek the air, nor slothful lightOn thyme to taste its bitterness — then ringsThe Phrygian gong — at once they pause aloftAstonied; and with love of toil resumedThrough all the flowers for their honey storeIn ceaseless wanderings search; the shepherd joys,Sure that th' Hyblaean mead for him has keptHis cottage store, the riches of his home.
Now in the active conduct of the warWere brought to discipline their minds, untaughtTo bear repose; first on the sandy shoreToiling they learned fatigue: then stormed thy walls,Cyrene; prizeless, for to Cato's mind'Twas prize enough to conquer. Juba nextHe bids attack, though Nature on the pathHad placed the Syrtes; which his sturdy heartAspired to conquer. Either at the firstWhen Nature gave the universe its formShe left this region neither land nor sea;Not wholly shrunk, so that it should receiveThe ocean flood; nor firm enough to standAgainst its buffets — all the pathless coastLies in uncertain shape; the land by earthIs parted from the deep; on sandy banksThe seas are broken, and from shoal to shoalThe waves advance to sound upon the shore.Nature, in spite, thus left her work undone,Unfashioned to men's use — Or else of oldA foaming ocean filled the wide expanse,But Titan feeding from the briny depthsHis burning fires (near to the zone of heat)Reduced the waters; and the sea still fightsWith Phoebus' beams, which in the length of timeDrank deeper of its fountains.
When the mainStruck by the oars gave passage to the fleet,Black from the sky rushed down a southern galeUpon his realm, and from the watery plainDrave back th' invading ships, and from the shoalsCompelled the billows, and in middle seaRaised up a bank. Forth flew the bellying sailsBeyond the prows, despite the ropes that daredResist the tempest's fury; and for thoseWho prescient housed their canvas to the storm,Bare-masted they were driven from their course.Best was their lot who gained the open wavesOf ocean; others lightened of their mastsShook off the tempest; but a sweeping tideHurried them southwards, victor of the gale.Some freed of shallows on a bank were forcedWhich broke the deep: their ship in part was fast,Part hanging on the sea; their fates in doubt.Fierce rage the waves till hems (9) them in the land;Nor Auster's force in frequent buffets spentPrevails upon the shore. High from the mainBy seas inviolate one bank of sand,Far from the coast arose; there watched in vainThe storm-tossed mariners, their keel aground,No shore descrying. Thus in sea were lostSome portion, but the major part by helmAnd rudder guided, and by pilots' handsWho knew the devious channels, safe at lengthFloated the marsh of Triton loved (as saithThe fable) by that god, whose sounding shell (10)All seas and shores re-echo; and by her,Pallas, who springing from her father's headFirst lit on Libya, nearest land to heaven,(As by its heat is proved); here on the brinkShe stood, reflected in the placid waveAnd called herself Tritonis. Lethe's floodFlows silent near, in fable from a sourceInfernal sprung, oblivion in his stream;Here, too, that garden of the HesperidsWhere once the sleepless dragon held his watch,Shorn of its leafy wealth. Shame be on himWho calls upon the poet for the proofOf that which in the ancient days befell;But here were golden groves by yellow growthWeighed down in richness, here a maiden bandWere guardians; and a serpent, on whose eyesSleep never fell, was coiled around the trees,Whose branches bowed beneath their ruddy load.But great Alcides stripped the bending boughs,And bore their shining apples (thus his taskAccomplished) to the court of Argos' king.
Driven on the Libyan realms, more fruitful here,Pompeius (11) stayed the fleet, nor further daredIn Garamantian waves. But Cato's soulLeaped in his breast, impatient of delay,To pass the Syrtes by a landward march,And trusting to their swords, 'gainst tribes unknownTo lead his legions. And the storm which closedThe main to navies gave them hope of rain;Nor biting frosts they feared, in Libyan clime;Nor suns too scorching in the falling year.
Thus ere they trod the deserts, Cato spake:"Ye men of Rome, who through mine arms aloneCan find the death ye covet, and shall fallWith pride unbroken should the fates command,Meet this your weighty task, your high empriseWith hearts resolved to conquer. For we marchOn sterile wastes, burnt regions of the world;Scarce are the wells, and Titan from the heightBurns pitiless, unclouded; and the slimeOf poisonous serpents fouls the dusty earth.Yet shall men venture for the love of lawsAnd country perishing, upon the sandsOf trackless Libya; men who brave in soulRely not on the end, and in attemptWill risk their all. 'Tis not in Cato's thoughtsOn this our enterprise to lead a bandBlind to the truth, unwitting of the risk.Nay, give me comrades for the danger's sake,Whom I shall see for honour and for RomeBear up against the worst. But whose needsA pledge of safety, to whom life is sweet,Let him by fairer journey seek his lord.First be my foot upon the sand; on meFirst strike the burning sun; across my pathThe serpent void his venom; by my fateKnow ye your perils. Let him only thirstWho sees me at the spring: who sees me seekThe shade, alone sink fainting in the heat;Or whoso sees me ride before the ranksPlodding their weary march: such be the lotOf each, who, toiling, finds in me a chiefAnd not a comrade. Snakes, thirst, burning sandThe brave man welcomes, and the patient breastFinds happiness in labour. By its costCourage is sweeter; and this Libyan landSuch cloud of ills can furnish as might makeMen flee unshamed." 'Twas thus that Cato spake,Kindling the torch of valour and the loveOf toil: then reckless of his fate he strodeThe desert path from which was no return:And Libya ruled his destinies, to shutHis sacred name within a narrow tomb.
One-third of all the world, (12) if fame we trust,Is Libya; yet by winds and sky she yieldsSome part to Europe; for the shores of NileNo more than Scythian Tanais are remoteFrom furthest Gades, where with bending coast,Yielding a place to Ocean, Europe partsFrom Afric shores. Yet falls the larger worldTo Asia only. From the former twoIssues the Western wind; but Asia's rightTouches the Southern limits and her leftThe Northern tempest's home; and of the EastShe's mistress to the rising of the Sun.All that is fertile of the Afric landsLies to the west, but even here aboundNo wells of water: though the Northern wind,Infrequent, leaving us with skies serene,Falls there in showers. Not gold nor wealth of brassIt yields the seeker: pure and unalloyedDown to its lowest depths is Libyan soil.Yet citron forests to Maurusian tribesWere riches, had they known; but they, content,Lived 'neath the shady foliage, till gleamedThe axe of Rome amid the virgin grove,To bring from furthest limits of the worldOur banquet tables and the fruit they bear. (13)But suns excessive and a scorching airBurn all the glebe beside the shifting sands:There die the harvests on the crumbling mould;No root finds sustenance, nor kindly JoveMakes rich the furrow nor matures the vine.Sleep binds all nature and the tract of sandLies ever fruitless, save that by the shoreThe hardy Nasamon plucks a scanty grass.Unclothed their race, and living on the woesWorked by the cruel Syrtes on mankind;For spoilers are they of the luckless shipsCast on the shoals: and with the world by wrecksTheir only commerce.
Here at Cato's wordHis soldiers passed, in fancy from the windsThat sweep the sea secure: here on them fellSmiting with greater strength upon the shore,Than on the ocean, Auster's tempest force,And yet more fraught with mischief: for no cragsRepelled his strength, nor lofty mountains tamedHis furious onset, nor in sturdy woodsHe found a bar; but free from reining hand,Raged at his will o'er the defenceless earth.Nor did he mingle dust and clouds of rainIn whirling circles, but the earth was sweptAnd hung in air suspended, till amazedThe Nasamon saw his scanty field and homeReft by the tempest, and the native hutsFrom roof to base were hurried on the blast.Not higher, when some all-devouring flameHas seized upon its prey, in volumes denseRolls up the smoke, and darkens all the air.Then with fresh might he fell upon the hostOf marching Romans, snatching from their feetThe sand they trod. Had Auster been enclosedIn some vast cavernous vault with solid wallsAnd mighty barriers, he had moved the worldUpon its ancient base and made the landsTo tremble: but the facile Libyan soilBy not resisting stood, and blasts that whirledThe surface upwards left the depths unmoved.Helmet and shield and spear were torn awayBy his most violent breath, and borne aloftThrough all the regions of the boundless sky;Perchance a wonder in some distant land,Where men may fear the weapons from the heavenThere falling, as the armour of the gods,Nor deem them ravished from a soldier's arm.'Twas thus on Numa by the sacred fireThose shields descended which our chosen priests (14)Bear on their shoulders; from some warlike raceBy tempest rapt, to be the prize of Rome.
Fearing the storm prone fell the host to earthWinding their garments tight, and with clenched handsGripping the earth: for not their weight aloneWithstood the tempest which upon their framesPiled mighty heaps, and their recumbent limbsBuried in sand. At length they struggling roseBack to their feet, when lo! around them stood,Forced by the storm, a growing bank of earthWhich held them motionless. And from afarWhere walls lay prostrate, mighty stones were hurled,Thus piling ills on ills in wondrous form:No dwellings had they seen, yet at their feetBeheld the ruins. All the earth was hidIn vast envelopment, nor found they guideSave from the stars, which as in middle deepFlamed o'er them wandering: yet some were hidBeneath the circle of the Libyan earthWhich tending downwards hid the Northern sky.
When warmth dispersed the tempest-driven air,And rose upon the earth the flaming day,Bathed were their limbs in sweat, but parched and dryTheir gaping lips; when to a scanty springFar off beheld they came, whose meagre dropsAll gathered in the hollow of a helmThey offered to their chief. Caked were their throatsWith dust, and panting; and one little dropHad made him envied. "Wretch, and dost thou deemMe wanting in a brave man's heart?" he cried,"Me only in this throng? And have I seemedTender, unfit to bear the morning heat?He who would quench his thirst 'mid such a host,Doth most deserve its pangs." Then in his wrathDashed down the helmet, and the scanty spring,Thus by their leader spurned, sufficed for all.
Now had they reached that temple which possessSole in all Libya, th' untutored tribesOf Garamantians. Here holds his seat(So saith the story) a prophetic Jove,Wielding no thunderbolts, nor like to ours,The Libyan Hammen of the curved horn.No wealth adorns his fane by Afric tribesBestowed, nor glittering hoard of Eastern gems.Though rich Arabians, Ind and EthiopKnow him alone as Jove, still is he poorHolding his shrine by riches undefiledThrough time, and god as of the olden daysSpurns all the wealth of Rome. That here some godDwells, witnesses the only groveThat buds in Libya — for that which growsUpon the arid dust which Leptis partsFrom Berenice, knows no leaves; aloneHammon uprears a wood; a fount the causeWhich with its waters binds the crumbling soil.Yet shall the Sun when poised upon the heightStrike through the foliage: hardly can the treeProtect its trunk, and to a little spaceHis rays draw in the circle of the shade.Here have men found the spot where that high bandSolstitial divides in middle sky (15)The zodiac stars: not here oblique their course,Nor Scorpion rises straighter than the Bull,Nor to the Scales does Ram give back his hours,Nor does Astraea bid the Fishes sinkMore slowly down: but watery CapricornIs equal with the Crab, and with the TwinsThe Archer; neither does the Lion riseAbove Aquarius. But the race that dwellsBeyond the fervour of the Libyan firesSees to the South that shadow which with usFalls to the North: slow Cynosure sinks (16)For them below the deep; and, dry with us,The Wagon plunges; far from either pole,No star they know that does not seek the main,But all the constellations in their courseWhirl to their vision through the middle sky.
Before the doors the Eastern peoples stoodSeeking from horned Jove to know their fates:Yet to the Roman chief they yielded place,Whose comrades prayed him to entreat the godsFamed through the Libyan world, and judge the voiceRenowned from distant ages. First of theseWas Labienus: (17) "Chance," he said, "to usThe voice and counsel of this mighty godHas offered as we march; from such a guideTo know the issues of the war, and learnTo track the Syrtes. For to whom on earthIf not to blameless Cato, shall the godsEntrust their secrets? Faithful thou at least,Their follower through all thy life hast been;Now hast thou liberty to speak with Jove.Ask impious Caesar's fates, and learn the lawsThat wait our country in the future days:Whether the people shall be free to useTheir rights and customs, or the civil warFor us is wasted. To thy sacred breast,Lover of virtue, take the voice divine;Demand what virtue is and guide thy stepsBy heaven's high counsellor."
But Cato, fullOf godlike thoughts borne in his quiet breast,This answer uttered, worthy of the shrines:"What, Labienus, dost thou bid me ask?Whether in arms and freedom I should wishTo perish, rather than endure a king?Is longest life worth aught? And doth its termMake difference? Can violence to the goodDo injury? Do Fortune's threats availOutweighed by virtue? Doth it not sufficeTo aim at deeds of bravery? Can fameGrow by achievement? Nay! No Hammen's voiceShall teach us this more surely than we know.Bound are we to the gods; no voice we need;They live in all our acts, although the shrineBe silent: at our birth and once for allWhat may be known the author of our beingRevealed; nor Chose these thirsty sands to chauntTo few his truth, whelmed in the dusty waste.God has his dwelling in all things that be,In earth and air and sea and starry vault,In virtuous deeds; in all that thou can'st see,In all thy thoughts contained. Why further, then,Seek we our deities? Let those who doubtAnd halting, tremble for their coming fates,Go ask the oracles. No mystic words,Make sure my heart, but surely-coming Death.Coward alike and brave, we all must die.Thus hath Jove spoken: seek to know no more."
Thus Cato spake, and faithful to his creedHe parted from the temple of the godAnd left the oracle of Hammon dumb.
Bearing his javelin, as one of themBefore the troops he marched: no panting slaveWith bending neck, no litter bore his form.He bade them not, but showed them how to toil.Spare in his sleep, the last to sip the springWhen at some rivulet to quench their thirstThe eager ranks pressed onward, he aloneUntil the humblest follower might drinkStood motionless. If for the truly goodIs fame, and virtue by the deed itself,Not by sucoessful issue, should be judged,Yield, famous ancestors! Fortune, not worthGained you your glory. But such name as hisWho ever merited by successful warOr slaughtered peoples? Rather would I leadWith him his triumph through the pathless sandsAnd Libya's bounds, than in Pompeius' carThree times ascend the Capitol, (18) or breakThe proud Jugurtha. (19) Rome! in him beholdHis country's father, worthiest of thy vows;A name by which men shall not blush to swear,Whom, should'st thou break the fetters from thy neck,Thou may'st in distant days decree divine.
Now was the heat more dense, and through that climeThan which no further on the Southern sideThe gods permit, they trod; and scarcer stillThe water, till in middle sands they foundOne bounteous spring which clustered serpents heldThough scaroe the space sufficed. By thirsting snakesThe fount was thronged and asps pressed on the marge.But when the chieftain saw that speedy fateWas on the host, if they should leave the wellUntasted, "Vain," he cried, "your fear of death.Drink, nor delay: 'tis from the threatening toothMen draw their deaths, and fatal from the fangIssues the juice if mingled with the blood;The cup is harmless." Then he sipped the fount,Still doubting, and in all the Libyan wasteThere only was he first to touch the stream.
Why fertile thus in death the pestilent airOf Libya, what poison in her soilHer several nature mixed, my care to knowHas not availed: but from the days of oldA fabled story has deceived the world.
Far on her limits, where the burning shoreAdmits the ocean fervid from the sunPlunged in its waters, lay Medusa's fieldsUntilled; nor forests shaded, nor the ploughFurrowed the soil, which by its mistress' gazeWas hardened into stone: Phorcus, her sire.Malevolent nature from her body firstDrew forth these noisome pests; first from her jawsIssued the sibilant rattle of serpent tongues;Clustered around her head the poisonous broodLike to a woman's hair, wreathed on her neckWhich gloried in their touch; their glittering headsAdvanced towards her; and her tresses kemptDripped down with viper's venom. This aloneThou hast, accursed one, which men can seeUnharmed; for who upon that gaping mouthLooked and could dread? To whom who met her glance,Was death permitted? Fate delayed no more.But ere the victim feared had struck him down:Perished the limbs while living, and the soulGrew stiff and stark ere yet it fled the frame.Men have been frenzied by the Furies' locks,Not killed; and Cerberus at Orpheus' songCeased from his hissing, and Alcides sawThe Hydra ere he slew. This monster bornBrought horror with her birth upon her sirePhorcus, in second order God of Waves,And upon Ceto and the Gorgon brood, (20)Her sisters. She could threat the sea and skyWith deadly calm unknown, and from the worldBid cease the soil. Borne down by instant weightFowls fell from air, and beasts were fixed in stone.Whole Ethiop tribes who tilled the neighbouring landsRigid in marble stood. The Gorgon sightNo creature bore and even her serpents turnedBack from her visage. Atlas in his placeBeside the Western columns, by her lookWas turned to rocks; and when on snakes of oldPhlegraean giants stood and frighted heaven,She made them mountains, and the Gorgon headBorne on Athena's bosom closed the war.Here born of Danae and the golden shower,Floating on wings Parrhasian, by the godArcadian given, author of the lyreAnd wrestling art, came Perseus, down from heavenSwooping. Cyllenian Harp (21) did he bearStill crimson from another monster slain,The guardian of the heifer loved by Jove.This to her winged brother Pallas lentPrice of the monster's head: by her commandUpon the limits of the Libyan landHe sought the rising sun, with flight averse,Poised o'er Medusa's realm; a burnished shieldOf yellow brass upon his other arm,Her gift, he bore: in which she bade him seeThe fatal face unscathed. Nor yet in sleepLay all the monster, for such total restTo her were death — so fated: serpent locksIn vigilant watch, some reaching forth defendHer head, while others lay upon her faceAnd slumbering eyes. Then hero Perseus shookThough turned averse; trembled his dexter hand:But Pallas held, and the descending bladeShore the broad neck whence sprang the viper brood.What visage bore the Gorgon as the steelThus reft her life! what poison from her throatBreathed! from her eyes what venom of death distilled!The goddess dared not look, and Perseus' faceHad frozen, averse, had not Athena veiledWith coils of writhing snakes the features dead.Then with the Gorgon head the hero flewUplifted on his wings and sought the sky.Shorter had been his voyage through the midstOf Europe's cities; but Athena badeTo spare her peoples and their fruitful lands;For who when such an airy courser passedHad not looked up to heaven? Western windsNow sped his pinions, and he took his courseO'er Libya's regions, from the stars and sunsVeiled by no culture. Phoebus' nearer trackThere burns the soil, and loftiest on the sky (22)There fails the night, to shade the wandering moon,If o'er forgetful of her course oblique,Straight through the stars, nor bending to the NorthNor to the South, she hastens. Yet that earth,In nothing fertile, void of fruitful yield,Drank in the poison of Medusa's blood,Dripping in dreadful dews upon the soil,And in the crumbling sands by heat matured.
First from the dust was raised a gory clot (23)In guise of Asp, sleep-bringing, swollen of neck:Full was the blood and thick the poison dropThat were its making; in no other snakeMore copious held. Greedy of warmth it seeksNo frozen world itself, nor haunts the sandsBeyond the Nile; yet has our thirst of gainNo shame nor limit, and this Libyan death,This fatal pest we purchase for our own.Haemorrhois huge spreads out his scaly coils,Who suffers not his hapless victims' bloodTo stay within their veins. Chersydros sprangTo life, to dwell within the doubtful marshWhere land nor sea prevails. A cloud of sprayMarked fell Chelyder's track: and Cenchris roseStraight gliding to his prey, his belly tingedWith various spots unnumbered, more than thoseWhich paint the Theban (24) marble; horned snakesWith spines contorted: like to torrid sandAmmodytes, of hue invisible:Sole of all serpents Scytale to shedIn vernal frosts his slough; and thirsty Dipsas;Dread Amphisbaena with his double headTapering; and Natrix who in bubbling fountFuses his venom. Greedy Prester swellsHis foaming jaws; Pareas, head erectFurrows with tail alone his sandy path;Swift Jaculus there, and Seps (25) whose poisonous juiceMakes putrid flesh and frame: and there uprearedHis regal head, and frighted from his trackWith sibilant terror all the subject swam,Baneful ere darts his poison, Basilisk (26)In sands deserted king. Ye serpents tooWho in all other regions harmless glideAdored as gods, and bright with golden scales,In those hot wastes are deadly; poised in airWhole herds of kine ye follow, and with coilsEncircling close, crush in the mighty bull.Nor does the elephant in his giant bulk,Nor aught, find safety; and ye need no fangNor poison, to compel the fatal end.
Amid these pests undaunted Cato urgedHis desert journey on. His hardy troopsBeneath his eyes, pricked by a scanty wound,In strangest forms of death unnumbered fall.Tyrrhenian Aulus, bearer of a flag,Trod on a Dipsas; quick with head reversedThe serpent struck; no mark betrayed the tooth:The aspect of the wound nor threatened death,Nor any evil; but the poison germIn silence working as consuming fireAbsorbed the moisture of his inward frame,Draining the natural juices that were spreadAround his vitals; in his arid jawsSet flame upon his tongue: his wearied limbsNo sweat bedewed; dried up, the fount of tearsFled from his eyelids. Tortured by the fireNor Cato's sternness, nor of his sacred chargeThe honour could withhold him; but he daredTo dash his standard down, and through the plainsRaging, to seek for water that might slakeThe fatal venom thirsting at his heart.Plunge him in Tanais, in Rhone and Po,Pour on his burning tongue the flood of Nile,Yet were the fire unquenched. So fell the fangOf Dipsas in the torrid Libyan lands;In other climes less fatal. Next he seeksAmid the sands, all barren to the depths,For moisture: then returning to the shoalsLaps them with greed — in vain — the briny draughtScarce quenched the thirst it made. Nor knowing yetThe poison in his frame, he steels himselfTo rip his swollen veins and drink the gore.Cato bids lift the standard, lest his troopsMay find in thirst a pardon for the deed.
But on Sabellus' yet more piteous deathTheir eyes were fastened. Clinging to his skinA Seps with curving tooth, of little size,He seized and tore away, and to the sandsPierced with his javelin. Small the serpent's bulk;None deals a death more horrible in form.For swift the flesh dissolving round the woundBared the pale bone; swam all his limbs in blood;Wasted the tissue of his calves and knees:And all the muscles of his thighs were thawedIn black distilment, and file membrane sheathParted, that bound his vitals, which abroadFlowed upon earth: yet seemed it not that allHis frame was loosed, for by the venomous dropWere all the bands that held his muscles drawnDown to a juice; the framework of his chestWas bare, its cavity, and all the partsHid by the organs of life, that make the man.So by unholy death there stood revealedHis inmost nature. Head and stalwart arms,And neck and shoulders, from their solid massMelt in corruption. Not more swiftly flowsWax at the sun's command, nor snow compelledBy southern breezes. Yet not all is said:For so to noxious humours fire consumesOur fleshly frame; but on the funeral pyreWhat bones have perished? These dissolve no lessThan did the mouldered tissues, nor of deathThus swift is left a trace. Of Afric pestsThou bear'st the palm for hurtfulness: the lifeThey snatch away, thou only with the lifeThe clay that held it.
Lo! a different fate,Not this by melting! for a Prester's fangNasidius struck, who erst in Marsian fieldsGuided the ploughshare. Burned upon his faceA redness as of flame: swollen the skin,His features hidden, swollen all his limbsTill more than human: and his definite frameOne tumour huge concealed. A ghastly goreIs puffed from inwards as the virulent juiceCourses through all his body; which, thus grown,His corselet holds not. Not in caldron soBoils up to mountainous height the steaming wave;Nor in such bellying curves does canvas bendTo Eastern tempests. Now the ponderous bulkRejects the limbs, and as a shapeless trunkBurdens the earth: and there, to beasts and birdsA fatal feast, his comrades left the corseNor dared to place, yet swelling, in the tomb.
But for their eyes the Libyan pests preparedMore dreadful sights. On Tullus great in heart,And bound to Cato with admiring soul,A fierce Haemorrhois fixed. From every limb, (27)(As from a statue saffron spray is showeredIn every part) there spouted forth for bloodA sable poison: from the natural poresOf moisture, gore profuse; his mouth was filledAnd gaping nostrils, and his tears were blood.Brimmed full his veins; his very sweat was red;All was one wound.
Then piteous Levus nextIn sleep was victim, for around his heartStood still the blood congealed: no pain he feltOf venomous tooth, but swift upon him fellDeath, and he sought the shades; more swift to killNo draught in poisonous cups from ripened plantsOf direst growth Sabaean wizards brew.
Lo! Upon branchless trunk a serpent, namedBy Libyans Jaculus, rose in coils to dartHis venom from afar. Through Paullus' brainIt rushed, nor stayed; for in the wound itselfWas death. Then did they know how slowly flies,Flung from a sling, the stone; how gently speedThrough air the shafts of Scythia.
What availed,Murrus, the lance by which thou didst transfixA Basilisk? Swift through the weapon ranThe poison to his hand: he draws his swordAnd severs arm and shoulder at a blow:Then gazed secure upon his severed handWhich perished as he looked. So had'st thou died,And such had been thy fate!
Whoe'er had thoughtA scorpion had strength o'er death or fate?Yet with his threatening coils and barb erectHe won the glory of Orion (28) slain;So bear the stars their witness. And who would fearThy haunts, Salpuga? (29) Yet the Stygian MaidsHave given thee power to snap the fatal threads.
Thus nor the day with brightness, nor the nightWith darkness gave them peace. The very earthOn which they lay they feared; nor leaves nor strawThey piled for couches, but upon the groundUnshielded from the fates they laid their limbs,Cherished beneath whose warmth in chill of nightThe frozen pests found shelter; in whose jawsHarmless the while, the lurking venom slept.Nor did they know the measure of their marchAccomplished, nor their path; the stars in heavenTheir only guide. "Return, ye gods," they cried,In frequent wail, "the arms from which we fled.Give back Thessalia. Sworn to meet the swordWhy, lingering, fall we thus? In Caesar's placeThe thirsty Dipsas and the horned snakeNow wage the warfare. Rather let us seekThat region by the horses of the sunScorched, and the zone most torrid: let us fallSlain by some heavenly cause, and from the skyDescend our fate! Not, Africa, of theeComplain we, nor of Nature. From mankindCut off, this quarter, teeming thus with pestsShe gave to snakes, and to the barren fieldsDenied the husbandman, nor wished that menShould perish by their venom. To the realmsOf serpents have we come. Hater of men,Receive thy vengeance, whoso of the godsSevered this region upon either hand,With death in middle space. Our march is setThrough thy sequestered kingdom, and the hostWhich knows thy secret seeks the furthest world.Perchance some greater wonders on our pathMay still await us; in the waves be plungedHeaven's constellations, and the lofty poleStoop from its height. By further space removedNo land, than Juba's realm; by rumour's voiceDrear, mournful. Haply for this serpent landThere may we long, where yet some living thingGives consolation. Not my native landNor European fields I hope for nowLit by far other suns, nor Asia's plains.But in what land, what region of the sky,Where left we Africa? But now with frostsCyrene stiffened: have we changed the lawsWhich rule the seasons, in this little space?Cast from the world we know, 'neath other skiesAnd stars we tread; behind our backs the homeOf southern tempests: Rome herself perchanceNow lies beneath our feet. Yet for our fatesThis solace pray we, that on this our trackPursuing Caesar with his host may come."
Thus was their stubborn patience of its plaintsDisburdened. But the bravery of their chiefForced them to bear their toils. Upon the sand,All bare, he lies and dares at every hourFortune to strike: he only at the fateOf each is present, flies to every call;And greatest boon of all, greater than life,Brought strength to die. To groan in death was shameIn such a presence. What power had all the illsPossessed upon him? In another's breastHe conquers misery, teaching by his mienThat pain is powerless.
Hardly aid at lengthDid Fortune, wearied of their perils, grant.Alone unharmed of all who till the earth,By deadly serpents, dwells the Psyllian race.Potent as herbs their song; safe is their blood,Nor gives admission to the poison germE'en when the chant has ceased. Their home itselfPlaced in such venomous tract and serpent-throngedGained them this vantage, and a truce with death,Else could they not have lived. Such is their trustIn purity of blood, that newly bornEach babe they prove by test of deadly aspFor foreign lineage. So the bird of JoveTurns his new fledglings to the rising sunAnd such as gaze upon the beams of dayWith eves unwavering, for the use of heavenHe rears; but such as blink at Phoebus' raysCasts from the nest. Thus of unmixed descentThe babe who, dreading not the serpent touch,Plays in his cradle with the deadly snake.Nor with their own immunity from harmContented do they rest, but watch for guestsWho need their help against the noisome plague.