By this dread path Death trapped his captive prey.Which when they knew, fierce anger filled their souls,And took the place of fear. They slew the steedsNow useless grown, and rushed upon their fate;Hopeless of life and flight. But Caesar cried:"Hold back your weapons, soldiers, from the foe,Strike not the breast advancing; let the warCost me no blood; he falls not without priceWho with his life-blood challenges the fray.Scorning their own base lives and hating light,To Caesar's loss they rush upon their death,Nor heed our blows. But let this frenzy pass,This madman onset; let the wish for deathDie in their souls." Thus to its embers shrankThe fire within when battle was denied,And fainter grew their rage until the nightDrew down her starry veil and sank the sun.Thus keener fights the gladiator whose woundIs recent, while the blood within the veinsStill gives the sinews motion, ere the skinShrinks on the bones: but as the victor standsHis fatal thrust achieved, and points the bladeUnfaltering, watching for the end, there creepsTorpor upon the limbs, the blood congealsAbout the gash, more faintly throbs the heart,And slowly fading, ebbs the life away.
Raving for water now they dig the plainsSeeking for hidden fountains, not with spadeAnd mattock only searching out the depths,But with the sword; they hack the stony heights,In shafts that reach the level of the plain.No further flees from light the pallid wretchWho tears the bowels of the earth for gold.Yet neither riven stones revealed a spring,Nor streamlet whispered from its hidden source;To water trickled on the gravel bed,Nor dripped within the cavern. Worn at lengthWith labour huge, they crawl to light again,After such toil to fall to thirst and heatThe readier victims: this was all they won.All food they loathe; and 'gainst their deadly thirstCall famine to their aid. Damp clods of earthThey squeeze upon their mouths with straining hands.Where'er on foulest mud some stagnant slimeOr moisture lies, though doomed to die they lapWith greedy tongues the draught their lips had loathedHad life been theirs to choose. Beast-like they drainThe swollen udder, and where milk was not,They sucked the life-blood forth. From herbs and boughsDripping with dew, from tender shoots they pressed,Say, from the pith of trees, the juice within.
Happy the host that onward marching findsIts savage enemy has fouled the wellsWith murderous venom; had'st thou, Caesar, castThe reeking filth of shambles in the stream,And henbane dire and all the poisonous herbsThat lurk on Cretan slopes, still had they drunkThe fatal waters, rather than endureSuch lingering agony. Their bowels rackedWith torments as of flame; the swollen tongueAnd jaws now parched and rigid, and the veins;Each laboured breath with anguish from the lungsEnfeebled, moistureless, was scarcely drawn,And scarce again returned; and yet agape,Their panting mouths sucked in the nightly dew;They watch for showers from heaven, and in despairGaze on the clouds, whence lately poured a flood.Nor were their tortures less that MeroeSaw not their sufferings, nor Cancer's zone,Nor where the Garamantian turns the soil;But Sicoris and Iberus at their feet,Two mighty floods, but far beyond their reach,Rolled down in measureless volume to the main.
But now their leaders yield; Afranius,Vanquished, throws down his arms, and leads his troops,Now hardly living, to the hostile campBefore the victor's feet, and sues for peace.Proud was his bearing, and despite of ills,His mien majestic, of his triumphs pastStill mindful in disaster — thus he stood,Though suppliant for grace, a leader yet;From fearless heart thus speaking: "Had the fatesThrown me before some base ignoble foe,Not, Caesar, thee; still had this arm fought onAnd snatched my death. Now if I suppliant ask,'Tis that I value still the boon of lifeGiven by a worthy hand. No party tiesRoused us to arms against thee; when the war,This civil war, broke out, it found us chiefs;And with our former cause we kept the faith,So long as brave men should. The fates' decreeNo longer we withstand. Unto thy willWe yield the western tribes: the east is thineAnd all the world lies open to thy march.Be generous! blood nor sword nor wearied armThy conquests bought. Thou hast not to forgiveAught but thy victory won. Nor ask we much.Give us repose; to lead in peace the lifeThou shalt bestow; suppose these armed linesAre corpses prostrate on the field of warNe'er were it meet that thy victorious ranks
Should mix with ours, the vanquished. DestinyHas run for us its course: one boon I beg;Bid not the conquered conquer in thy train."
Such were his words, and Caesar's gracious smileGranted his prayer, remitting rights that warGives to the victor. To th' unguarded streamThe soldiers speed: prone on the bank they lieAnd lap the flood or foul the crowded waves.In many a burning throat the sudden draughtPoured in too copious, filled the empty veinsAnd choked the breath within: yet left unquenchedThe burning pest which though their frames were fullCraved water for itself. Then, nerved once more,Their strength returned. Oh, lavish luxury,Contented never with the frugal meal!Oh greed that searchest over land and seaTo furnish forth the banquet! Pride that joy'stIn sumptuous tables! learn what life requires,How little nature needs! No ruddy juicePressed from the vintage in some famous year,Whose consuls are forgotten, served in cupsWith gold and jewels wrought restores the spark,The failing spark, of life; but water pureAnd simplest fruits of earth. The flood, the fieldSuffice for nature. Ah! the weary lotOf those who war! But these, their amour laidLow at the victor's feet, with lightened breast,Secure themselves, no longer dealing death,Beset by care no more, seek out their homes.What priceless gift in peace had they secured!How grieved it now their souls to have poised the dartWith arm outstretched; to have felt their raving thirst;And prayed the gods for victory in vain!Nay, hard they think the victor's lot, for whomA thousand risks and battles still remain;If fortune never is to leave his side,How often must he triumph! and how oftPour out his blood where'er great Caesar leads!Happy, thrice happy, he who, when the worldIs nodding to its ruin, knows the spotWhere he himself shall, though in ruin, lie!No trumpet call shall break his sleep again:But in his humble home with faithful spouseAnd sons unlettered Fortune leaves him freeFrom rage of party; for if life he owesTo Caesar, Magnus sometime was his lord.Thus happy they alone live on apart,Nor hope nor dread the event of civil war.
Not thus did Fortune upon Caesar smileIn all the parts of earth; (13) but 'gainst his armsDared somewhat, where Salona's lengthy wasteOpposes Hadria, and Iadar warmMeets with his waves the breezes of the west.There brave Curectae dwell, whose island homeIs girded by the main; on whom reliedAntonius; and beleaguered by the foe,Upon the furthest margin of the shore,(Safe from all ills but famine) placed his camp.But for his steeds the earth no forage gave,Nor golden Ceres harvest; but his troopsGnawed the dry herbage of the scanty turfWithin their rampart lines. But when they knewThat Baslus was on th' opposing shoreWith friendly force, by novel mode of flightThey aim to reach him. Not the accustomed keelThey lay, nor build the ship, but shapeless raftsOf timbers knit together, strong to bearAll ponderous weight; on empty casks beneathBy tightened chains made firm, in double rowsSupported; nor upon the deck were placedThe oarsmen, to the hostile dart exposed,But in a hidden space, by beams concealed.And thus the eye amazed beheld the massMove silent on its path across the sea,By neither sail nor stalwart arm propelled.
They watch the main until the refluent wavesEbb from the growing sands; then, on the tideReceding, launch their vessel; thus she floatsWith twin companions: over each uproseWith quivering battlements a lofty tower.Octavius, guardian of Illyrian seas,Restrained his swifter keels, and left the raftsFree from attack, in hope of larger spoilFrom fresh adventures; for the peaceful seaMay tempt them, and their goal in safety reached,To dare a second voyage. Round the stagThus will the cunning hunter draw a lineOf tainted feathers poisoning the air;Or spread the mesh, and muzzle in his graspThe straining jaws of the Molossian hound,And leash the Spartan pack; nor is the brakeTrusted to any dog but such as tracksThe scent with lowered nostrils, and refrainsFrom giving tongue the while; content to markBy shaking leash the covert of the prey.
Ere long they manned the rafts in eager wishTo quit the island, when the latest glowStill parted day from night. But Magnus' troops,Cilician once, taught by their ancient art,In fraudulent deceit had left the seaTo view unguarded; but with chains unseenFast to Illyrian shores, and hanging loose,They blocked the outlet in the waves beneath.The leading rafts passed safely, but the thirdHung in mid passage, and by ropes was hauledBelow o'ershadowing rocks. These hollowed outIn ponderous masses overhung the main,And nodding seemed to fall: shadowed by treesDark lay the waves beneath. Hither the tideBrings wreck and corpse, and, burying with the flow,Restores them with the ebb: and when the cavesBelch forth the ocean, swirling billows fallIn boisterous surges back, as boils the tideIn that famed whirlpool on Sicilian shores.
Here, with Venetian settlers for its load,Stood motionless the raft. Octavius' shipsGathered around, while foemen on the landFilled all the shore. But well the captain knew,Volteius, how the secret fraud was planned,And tried in vain with sword and steel to burstThe bands that held them; without hope he fights,Uncertain where to avoid or front the foe.Caught in this strait they strove as brave men shouldAgainst opposing hosts; nor long the fight,For fallen darkness brought a truce to arms.
Then to his men disheartened and in fearOf coming fate Volteius, great of soul,Thus spake in tones commanding: "Free no more,Save for this little night, consult ye nowIn this last moment, soldiers, how to faceYour final fortunes. No man's life is shortWho can take thought for death, nor is your fameLess than a conqueror's, if with breast advancedYe meet your destined doom. None know how longThe life that waits them. Summon your own fate,And equal is your praise, whether the handQuench the last flicker of departing light,Or shear the hope of years. But choice to dieIs thrust not on the mind — we cannot flee;See at our throats, e'en now, our kinsmen's swords.Then choose for death; desire what fate decrees.At least in war's blind cloud we shall not fall;Nor when the flying weapons hide the day,And slaughtered heaps of foemen load the field,And death is common, and the brave man sinksUnknown, inglorious. Us within this ship,Seen of both friends and foes, the gods have placed;Both land and sea and island cliffs shall bear,From either shore, their witness to our death,In which some great and memorable fameThou, Fortune, dost prepare. What glorious deedsOf warlike heroism, of noble faith,Time's annals show! All these shall we surpass.True, Caesar, that to fall upon our swordsFor thee is little; yet beleaguered thus,With neither sons nor parents at our sides,Shorn of the glory that we might have earned,
We give thee here the only pledge we may.Yet let these hostile thousands fear the soulsThat rage for battle and that welcome death,And know us for invincible, and joyThat no more rafts were stayed. They'll offer termsAnd tempt us with a base unhonoured life.Would that, to give that death which shall be oursThe greater glory, they may bid us hopeFor pardon and for life! lest when our swordsAre reeking with our hearts'-blood, they may sayThis was despair of living. Great must beThe prowess of our end, if in the hostsThat fight his battles, Caesar is to mournThis little handful lost. For me, should fateGrant us retreat, — myself would scorn to shunThe coming onset. Life I cast away,The frenzy of the death that comes apaceControls my being. Those alone whose endInspires them, know the happiness of death,Which the high gods, that men may bear to live,Keep hid from others." Thus his noble wordsWarmed his brave comrades' hearts; and who with fearAnd tearful eyes had looked upon the Wain,Turning his nightly course, now hoped for day,Such precepts deep within them. Nor delayedThe sky to dip the stars below the main;For Phoebus in the Twins his chariot draveAt noon near Cancer; and the hours of night (14)Were shortened by the Archer.
When day broke,Lo! on the rocks the Istrians; while the seaSwarmed with the galleys and their Grecian fleetAll armed for fight: but first the war was stayedAnd terms proposed: life to the foe they thoughtWould seem the sweeter, by delay of deathThus granted. But the band devoted stood,Proud of their promised end, and life forsworn,And careless of the battle: no debateCould shake their high resolve. (15) In numbers few'Gainst foemen numberless by land and sea,They wage the desperate fight; then satiateTurn from the foe. And first demanding deathVolteius bared his throat. "What youth," he cries,"Dares strike me down, and through his captain's woundsAttest his love for death?" Then through his sidePlunge blades uncounted on the moment drawn.He praises all: but him who struck the firstGrateful, with dying strength, he does to death.They rush together, and without a foeWork all the guilt of battle. Thus of yore,Rose up the glittering Dircaean bandFrom seed by Cadmus sown, and fought and died,Dire omen for the brother kings of Thebes.And so in Phasis' fields the sons of earth,Born of the sleepless dragon, all inflamedBy magic incantations, with their bloodDeluged the monstrous furrow, while the QueenFeared at the spells she wrought. Devoted thusTo death, they fall, yet in their death itselfLess valour show than in the fatal woundsThey take and give; for e'en the dying handMissed not a blow — nor did the stroke aloneInflict the wound, but rushing on the swordTheir throat or breast received it to the hilt;And when by fatal chance or sire with son,Or brothers met, yet with unfaltering weightDown flashed the pitiless sword: this proved their love,To give no second blow. Half living nowThey dragged their mangled bodies to the side,Whence flowed into the sea a crimson streamOf slaughter. 'Twas their pleasure yet to seeThe light they scorned; with haughty looks to scanThe faces of their victors, and to feelThe death approaching. But the raft was nowPiled up with dead; which, when the foemen saw,Wondering at such a chief and such a deed,They gave them burial. Never through the worldOf any brave achievement was the fameMore widely blazed. Yet meaner men, untaughtBy such examples, see not that the handWhich frees from slavery needs no valiant mindTo guide the stroke. But tyranny is fearedAs dealing death; and Freedom's self is galledBy ruthless arms; and knows not that the swordWas given for this, that none need live a slave.Ah Death! would'st thou but let the coward liveAnd grant the brave alone the prize to die!
Nor less were Libyan fields ablaze with war.For Curio rash from Lilybaean (16) coastSailed with his fleet, and borne by gentle windsBetwixt half-ruined Carthage, mighty once,And Clupea's cliff, upon the well-known shoreHis anchors dropped. First from the hoary seaRemote, where Bagra slowly ploughs the sand,He placed his camp: then sought the further hillsAnd mazy passages of cavernous rocks,Antaeus' kingdom called. From ancient daysThis name was given; and thus a swain retoldThe story handed down from sire to son:"Not yet exhausted by the giant brood,Earth still another monster brought to birth,In Libya's caverns: huger far was he,More justly far her pride, than BriareusWith all his hundred hands, or Typhon fierce,Or Tityos: 'twas in mercy to the godsThat not in Phlegra's (17) fields Antaeus grew,But here in Libya; to her offspring's strength,Unmeasured, vast, she added yet this boon,That when in weariness and labour spentHe touched his parent, fresh from her embraceRenewed in rigour he should rise again.In yonder cave he dwelt, 'neath yonder rockHe made his feast on lions slain in chase:There slept he; not on skins of beasts, or leaves,But fed his strength upon the naked earth.Perished the Libyan hinds and those who came,Brought here in ships, until he scorned at lengthThe earth that gave him strength, and on his feetInvincible and with unaided mightMade all his victims. Last to Afric shores,Drawn by the rumour of such carnage, cameMagnanimous Alcides, he who freedBoth land and sea of monsters. Down on earthHe threw his mantle of the lion's skinSlain in Cleone; nor Antaeus lessCast down the hide he wore. With shining oil,As one who wrestles at Olympia's feast,The hero rubs his limbs: the giant fearedLest standing only on his parent earthHis strength might fail; and cast o'er all his bulkHot sand in handfuls. Thus with arms entwinedAnd grappling hands each seizes on his foe;With hardened muscles straining at the neckLong time in vain; for firm the sinewy throatStood column-like, nor yielded; so that eachWondered to find his peer. Nor at the firstDivine Alcides put forth all his strength,By lengthy struggle wearing out his foe,Till chilly drops stood on Antaeas' limbs,And toppled to its fall the stately throat,And smitten by the hero's blows, the legsBegan to totter. Breast to breast they striveTo gain the vantage, till the victor's armsGird in the giant's yielding back and sides,And squeeze his middle part: next 'twixt the thighsHe puts his feet, and forcing them apart,Lays low the mighty monster limb by limb.The dry earth drank his sweat, while in his veinsWarm ran the life-blood, and with strength refreshed,The muscle swelled and all the joints grew firm,And with his might restored, he breaks his bondsAnd rives the arms of Hercules away.Amazed the hero stood at such a strength.Not thus he feared, though then unused to war,That hydra fierce, which smitten in the marshOf Inachus, renewed its severed heads.Again they join in fight, one with the powersWhich earth bestowed, the other with his own:Nor did the hatred of his step-dame (18) findIn all his conflicts greater room for hope.She sees bedewed in sweat the neck and limbsWhich once had borne the mountain of the godsNor knew the toil: and when Antaeus feltHis foeman's arms close round him once again,He flung his wearying limbs upon the sandTo rise with strength renewed; all that the earth,Though labouring sore, could breathe into her sonShe gave his frame. But Hercules at lastSaw how his parent gave the giant strength.'Stand thou,' he cried; 'no more upon the groundThou liest at thy will — here must thou stayWithin mine arms constrained; against this breast,Antaeus, shalt thou fall.' He lifted upAnd held by middle girth the giant form,Still struggling for the earth: but she no moreCould give her offspring rigour. Slowly cameThe chill of death upon him, and 'twas longBefore the hero, of his victory sure,Trusted the earth and laid the giant down.Hence hoar antiquity that loves to prateAnd wonders at herself (19), this region calledAntaeus' kingdom. But a greater nameIt gained from Scipio, when he recalledFrom Roman citadels the Punic chief.Here was his camp; here can'st thou see the traceOf that most famous rampart (20) whence at lengthIssued the Eagles of triumphant Rome."
But Curio rejoiced, as though for himThe fortunes of the spot must hold in storeThe fates of former chiefs: and on the placeOf happy augury placed his tents ill-starred,Took from the hills their omens; and with forceUnequal, challenged his barbarian foe.
All Africa that bore the Roman yokeThen lay 'neath Varus. He, though placing firstTrust in his Latian troops, from every sideAnd furthest regions, summons to his aidThe nations who confessed King Juba's rule.Not any monarch over wider tractsHeld the dominion. From the western belt (21)Near Gades, Atlas parts their furthest bounds;But from the southern, Hammon girds them inHard by the whirlpools; and their burning plainsStretch forth unending 'neath the torrid zone,In breadth its equal, till they reach at lengthThe shore of ocean upon either hand.From all these regions tribes unnumbered flockTo Juba's standard: Moors of swarthy hueAs though from Ind; Numidian nomads thereAnd Nasamon's needy hordes; and those whose dartsEqual the flying arrows of the Mede:Dark Garamantians leave their fervid home;And those whose coursers unrestrained by bitOr saddle, yet obey the rider's handWhich wields the guiding switch: the hunter, too,Who wanders forth, his home a fragile hut,And blinds with flowing robe (if spear should fail)The angry lion, monarch of the steppe.
Not eagerness alone to save the stateStirred Juba's spirit: private hatred tooRoused him to war. For in the former year,When Curio all things human and the godsPolluted, he by tribune law essayedTo ravish Libya from the tyrant's sway,And drive the monarch from his father's throne,While giving Rome a king. To Juba thus,Still smarting at the insult, came the war,A welcome harvest for his crown retained.These rumours Curio feared: nor had his troops(Ta'en in Corfinium's hold) (23) in waves of RhineBeen tested, nor to Caesar in the warsHad learned devotion: wavering in their faith,Their second chief they doubt, their first betrayed.
Yet when the general saw the spirit of fearCreep through his camp, and discipline to fail,And sentinels desert their guard at night,Thus in his fear he spake: "By daring muchFear is disguised; let me be first in arms,And bid my soldiers to the plain descend,While still my soldiers. Idle days breed doubt.By fight forestall the plot (24). Soon as the thirstOf bloodshed fills the mind, and eager handsGrip firm the sword, and pressed upon the browThe helm brings valour to the failing heart —Who cares to measure leaders' merits then?Who weighs the cause? With whom the soldier stands,For him he fights; as at the fatal showNo ancient grudge the gladiator's armNerves for the combat, yet as he shall strikeHe hates his rival." Thinking thus he leadsHis troops in battle order to the plain.Then victory on his arms deceptive shoneHiding the ills to come: for from the fieldDriving the hostile host with sword and spear,He smote them till their camp opposed his way.But after Varus' rout, unseen till then,All eager for the glory to be his,By stealth came Juba: silent was his march;His only fear lest rumour should forestallHis coming victory. In pretended warHe sends Sabura forth with scanty forceTo tempt the enemy, while in hollow valeHe holds the armies of his realm unseen.Thus doth the sly ichneumon (25) with his tailWaving, allure the serpent of the NileDrawn to the moving shadow: he, with headTurned sideways, watches till the victim glidesWithin his reach, then seizes by the throatBehind the deadly fangs: forth from its seatBalked of its purpose, through the brimming jawsGushes a tide of poison. Fortune smiledOn Juba's stratagem; for Curio(The hidden forces of the foe unknown)Sent forth his horse by night without the campTo scour more distant regions. He himselfAt earliest peep of dawn bids carry forthHis standards; heeding not his captains' prayerUrged on his ears: "Beware of Punic fraud,The craft that taints a Carthaginian war."Hung over him the doom of coming deathAnd gave the youth to fate; and civil strifeDragged down its author.
On the lofty topsWhere broke the hills abruptly to their fallHe ranks his troops and sees the foe afar:Who still deceiving, simulated flight,Till from the height in loose unordered linesThe Roman forces streamed upon the plain,In thought that Juba fled. Then first was knownThe treacherous fraud: for swift Numidian horseOn every side surround them: leader, men —All see their fate in one dread moment come.No coward flees, no warrior bravely stridesTo meet the battle: nay, the trumpet callStirs not the charger with resounding hoofTo spurn the rock, nor galling bit compelsTo champ in eagerness; nor toss his maneAnd prick the ear, nor prancing with his feetTo claim his share of combat. Tired, the neckDroops downwards: smoking sweat bedews the limbs:Dry from the squalid mouth protrudes the tongue,Hoarse, raucous panting issues from their chests;Their flanks distend: and every curb is dryWith bloody foam; the ruthless sword aloneCould move them onward, powerless even thenTo charge; but giving to the hostile dartA nearer victim. But when the Afric horseFirst made their onset, loud beneath their hoofsRang the wide plain, and rose the dust in airAs by some Thracian whirlwind stirred; and veiledThe heavens in darkness. When on Curio's hostThe tempest burst, each footman in the rankStood there to meet his fate — no doubtful endHung in the balance: destiny proclaimedDeath to them all. No conflict hand to handWas granted them, by lances thrown from farAnd sidelong sword-thrusts slain: nor wounds alone,But clouds of weapons falling from the airBy weight of iron o'erwhelmed them. Still drew inThe straightening circle, for the first pressed backOn those behind; did any shun the foe,Seeking the inner safety of the ring,He needs must perish by his comrades' swords.And as the front rank fell, still narrower grewThe close crushed phalanx, till to raise their swordsSpace was denied. Still close and closer forcedThe armed breasts against each other drivenPressed out the life. Thus not upon a sceneSuch as their fortune promised, gazed the foe.No tide of blood was there to glut their eyes,No members lopped asunder, though the earth soWas piled with corpses; for each Roman stoodIn death upright against his comrade dead.
Let cruel Carthage rouse her hated ghostsBy this fell offering; let the Punic shades,And bloody Hannibal, from this defeatReceive atonement: yet 'twas shame, ye gods,That Libya gained not for herself the day;And that our Romans on that field should dieTo save Pompeius and the Senate's cause.
Now was the dust laid low by streams of blood,And Curio, knowing that his host was slain.Chose not to live; and, as a brave man should.He rushed upon the heap, and fighting fell.
In vain with turbid speech hast thou profanedThe pulpit of the forum: waved in vainFrom that proud (26) citadel the tribune flag:And armed the people, and the Senate's rightsBetraying, hast compelled this impious warBetwixt the rival kinsmen. Low thou liestBefore Pharsalus' fight, and from thine eyesIs hid the war. 'Tis thus to suffering Rome,For arms seditious and for civil strifeYe mighty make atonement with your blood.Happy were Rome and all her sons indeed,Did but the gods as rigidly protectAs they avenge, her violated laws!There Curio lies; untombed his noble corpse,Torn by the vultures of the Libyan wastes.Yet shall we, since such merit, though unsung,Lives by its own imperishable fame,Give thee thy meed of praise. Rome never boreAnother son, who, had he right pursued,Had so adorned her laws; but soon the times,Their luxury, corruption, and the curseOf too abundant wealth, in transverse streamSwept o'er his wavering mind: and Curio changed,Turned with his change the scale of human things.True, mighty Sulla, cruel Marius,And bloody Cinna, and the long descentOf Caesar and of Caesar's house becameLords of our lives. But who had power like him?All others bought the state: he sold alone. (27)
(1) Both of these generals were able and distinguished officers. Afranius was slain by Caesar's soldiers after the battle of Thapsus. Petreius, after the same battle, escaped along with Juba; and failing to find a refuge, they challenged each other to fight. Petreius was killed, and Juba, the survivor, put an end to himself. (2) These are the names of Spanish tribes. The Celtiberi dwelt on the Ebro. (3) Lerida, on the river Segre, above its junction with the Ebro. Cinga is the modern Cinca, which falls into the Segre (Sicoris). (4) Phrixus and Helle, the children of Nephele, were to be sacrificed to Zeus: but Nephele rescued them, and they rode away through the air on the Ram with the golden fleece. But Helle fell into the sea, which from her was named the Hellespont. (See Book IX., 1126.) The sun enters Aries about March 20. The Ram is pictured among the constellations with his head averse. (5) See Book I., 463. (6) See Mr. Heitland's introduction, upon the meaning of the word "cardo". The word "belt" seems fairly to answer to the two great circles or four meridians which he describes. The word occurs again at line 760; Book V., 80; Book VII., 452. (7) The idea is that the cold of the poles tempers the heat of the equator. (8) Fuso: either spacious, outspread; or, poured into the land (referring to the estuaries) as Mr. Haskins prefers; or, poured round the island. Portable leathern skiffs seem to have been in common use in Caesar's time in the English Channel. These were the rowing boats of the Gauls. (Mommsen, vol. iv., 219.) (9) Compare Book I., 519. (10) Compare the passage in Tacitus, "Histories", ii., 45, in which the historian describes how the troops of Otho and Vitellius wept over each other after the battle and deplored the miseries of a civil war. "Victi victoresque in lacrumas effusi, sortem civilium armorum misera laetitia detestantes." (11) "Saecula nostra" may refer either to Lucan's own time or to the moment arrived at in the poem; or it may, as Francken suggests, have a more general meaning. (12) "Petenda est"? — "is it fit that you should beg for the lives of your leaders?" Mr. Haskins says, "shall you have to beg for them?" But it means that to do so is the height of disgrace. (13) The scene is the Dalmatian coast of the Adriatic. Here was Diocletian's palace. (Described in the 13th chapter of Gibbon.) (14) That is, night was at its shortest. (15) On the following passage see Dean Merivale's remarks, "History of the Roman Empire", chapter xvi. (16) That is, Sicilian. (17) For Phlegra, the scene of the battle between the giants and the gods, see Book VII., 170, and Book IX., 774. Ben Jonson ("Sejanus", Act v., scene 10) says of Sejanus: — "Phlegra, the field where all the sons of earth Mustered against the gods, did ne'er acknowledge So proud and huge a monster." (18) Juno. (19) That is, extols ancient deeds. (20) Referring to the battle of Zama. (21) See line 82. (22) Curio was tribune in B.C. 50. His earlier years are stated to have been stained with vice. (23) See Book II., 537. (24) Preferring the reading "praeripe", with Francken. (25) Bewick ("Quadrupeds," p. 238) tells the following anecdote of a tame ichneumon which had never seen a serpent, and to which he brought a small one. "Its first emotion seemed to be astonishment mixed with anger; its hair became erect; in an instant it slipped behind the reptile, and with remarkable swiftness and agility leaped upon its head, seized it and crushed it with its teeth." (26) Reading "arce", not "arte". The word "signifer" seems to favour the reading I have preferred; and Dean Merivale and Hosius adopted it. (27) For the character and career of Curio, see Merivale's "History of the Roman Empire", chapter xvi. He was of profligate character, but a friend and pupil of Cicero; at first a rabid partisan of the oligarchy, he had, about the period of his tribuneship (B.C. 50-49), become a supporter of Caesar. How far Gaulish gold was the cause of this conversion we cannot tell. It is in allusion to this change that he was termed the prime mover of the civil war. His arrival in Caesar's camp is described in Book I., line 303. He became Caesar's chief lieutenant in place of the deserter Labienus; and, as described in Book III., was sent to Sardinia and Sicily, whence he expelled the senatorial forces. His final expedition to Africa, defeat and death, form the subject of the latter part of this book. Mommsen describes him as a man of talent, and finds a resemblance between him and Caesar. (Vol. iv., p. 393.)
Thus had the smiles of Fortune and her frownsBrought either chief to Macedonian shoresStill equal to his foe. From cooler skiesSank Atlas' (1) daughters down, and Haemus' slopesWere white with winter, and the day drew nighDevoted to the god who leads the months,And marking with new names the book of Rome,When came the Fathers from their distant postsBy both the Consuls to Epirus called (2)Ere yet the year was dead: a foreign landObscure received the magistrates of Rome,And heard their high debate. No warlike campThis; for the Consul's and the Praetor's axeProclaimed the Senate-house; and Magnus satOne among many, and the state was all.
When all were silent, from his lofty seatThus Lentulus began, while stern and sadThe Fathers listened: "If your hearts still beatWith Latian blood, and if within your breastsStill lives your fathers' vigour, look not nowOn this strange land that holds us, nor enquireYour distance from the captured city: yoursThis proud assembly, yours the high commandIn all that comes. Be this your first decree,Whose truth all peoples and all kings confess;Be this the Senate. Let the frozen wainDemand your presence, or the torrid zoneWherein the day and night with equal treadFor ever march; still follows in your stepsThe central power of Imperial Rome.When flamed the Capitol with fires of GaulWhen Veii held Camillus, there with himWas Rome, nor ever though it changed its climeYour order lost its rights. In Caesar's handsAre sorrowing houses and deserted homes,Laws silent for a space, and forums closedIn public fast. His Senate-house beholdsThose Fathers only whom from Rome it drove,While Rome was full. Of that high order allNot here, are exiles. (3) Ignorant of war,Its crimes and bloodshed, through long years of peace,Ye fled its outburst: now in session allAre here assembled. See ye how the godsWeigh down Italia's loss by all the worldThrown in the other scale? Illyria's waveRolls deep upon our foes: in Libyan wastesIs fallen their Curio, the weightier part (4)Of Caesar's senate! Lift your standards, then,Spur on your fates and prove your hopes to heaven.Let Fortune, smiling, give you courage nowAs, when ye fled, your cause. The Consuls' powerFails with the dying year: not so does yours;By your commandment for the common wealDecree Pompeius leader." With applauseThey heard his words, and placed their country's fates,Nor less their own, within the chieftain's hands.
Then did they shower on people and on kingsHonours well earned — Rhodes, Mistress of the Seas,Was decked with gifts; Athena, old in fame,Received her praise, and the rude tribes who dwellOn cold Taygetus; Massilia's sonsTheir own Phocaea's freedom; on the chiefsOf Thracian tribes, fit honours were bestowed.They order Libya by their high decreeTo serve King Juba's sceptre; and, alas!On Ptolemaeus, of a faithless raceThe faithless sovereign, scandal to the gods,And shame to Fortune, placed the diademOf Pella. Boy! thy sword was only sharpAgainst thy people. Ah if that were all!The fatal gift gave, too, Pompeius' life;Bereft thy sister of her sire's bequest, (5)Half of the kingdom; Caesar of a crime.Then all to arms.
While soldier thus and chief,In doubtful sort, against their hidden fateDevised their counsel, Appius (6) aloneFeared for the chances of the war, and soughtThrough Phoebus' ancient oracle to breakThe silence of the gods and know the end.
Between the western belt and that which bounds (7)The furthest east, midway Parnassus rearsHis double summit: to the Bromian godAnd Paean consecrate, to whom conjoinedThe Theban band leads up the Delphic feastOn each third year. This mountain, when the seaPoured o'er the earth her billows, rose alone,By one high peak scarce master of the waves,Parting the crest of waters from the stars.There, to avenge his mother, from her homeChased by the angered goddess while as yetShe bore him quick within her, Paean came(When Themis ruled the tripods and the spot) (8)And with unpractised darts the Python slew.But when he saw how from the yawning caveA godlike knowledge breathed, and all the airWas full of voices murmured from the depths,He took the shrine and filled the deep recess;Henceforth to prophesy.
Which of the godsHas left heaven's light in this dark cave to hide?What spirit that knows the secrets of the worldAnd things to come, here condescends to dwell,Divine, omnipotent? bear the touch of man,And at his bidding deigns to lift the veil?Perchance he sings the fates, perchance his song,Once sung, is fate. Haply some part of JoveSent here to rule the earth with mystic power,Balanced upon the void immense of air,Sounds through the caves, and in its flight returnsTo that high home of thunder whence it came.Caught in a virgin's breast, this deityStrikes on the human spirit: then a voiceSounds from her breast, as when the lofty peakOf Etna boils, forced by compelling flames,Or as Typheus on Campania's shoreFrets 'neath the pile of huge Inarime. (9)
Though free to all that ask, denied to none,No human passion lurks within the voiceThat heralds forth the god; no whispered vow,No evil prayer prevails; none favour gain:Of things unchangeable the song divine;Yet loves the just. When men have left their homesTo seek another, it hath turned their stepsAright, as with the Tyrians; (10) and raisedThe hearts of nations to confront their foe,As prove the waves of Salamis: (11) when earthHath been unfruitful, or polluted airHas plagued mankind, this utterance benignHath raised their hopes and pointed to the end.No gift from heaven's high gods so great as thisOur centuries have lost, since Delphi's shrineHas silent stood, and kings forbade the gods (12)To speak the future, fearing for their fates.Nor does the priestess sorrow that the voiceIs heard no longer; and the silent faneTo her is happiness; for whatever breastContains the deity, its shattered frameSurges with frenzy, and the soul divineShakes the frail breath that with the god receives,As prize or punishment, untimely death.
These tripods Appius seeks, unmoved for yearsThese soundless caverned rocks, in quest to learnHesperia's destinies. At his commandTo loose the sacred gateways and permitThe prophetess to enter to the god,The keeper calls Phemonoe; (13) whose stepsRound the Castalian fount and in the groveWere wandering careless; her he bids to passThe portals. But the priestess feared to treadThe awful threshold, and with vain deceitsSought to dissuade the chieftain from his zealTo learn the future. "What this hope," she cried,"Roman, that moves thy breast to know the fates?Long has Parnassus and its silent cleftStifled the god; perhaps the breath divineHas left its ancient gorge and thro' the worldWanders in devious paths; or else the fane,Consumed to ashes by barbarian (14) fire,Closed up the deep recess and choked the pathOf Phoebus; or the ancient Sibyl's booksDisclosed enough of fate, and thus the godsDecreed to close the oracle; or elseSince wicked steps are banished from the fane,In this our impious age the god finds noneWhom he may answer." But the maiden's guileWas known, for though she would deny the godsHer fears approved them. On her front she bindsA twisted fillet, while a shining wreathOf Phocian laurels crowns the locks that flowUpon her shoulders. Hesitating yetThe priest compelled her, and she passed within.But horror filled her of the holiest depthsFrom which the mystic oracle proceeds;And resting near the doors, in breast unmovedShe dares invent the god in words confused,Which proved no mind possessed with fire divine;By such false chant less injuring the chiefThan faith in Phoebus and the sacred fane.No burst of words with tremor in their tones,No voice re-echoing through the spacious vaultProclaimed the deity, no bristling locksShook off the laurel chaplet; but the groveUnshaken, and the summits of the shrine,Gave proof she shunned the god. The Roman knewThe tripods yet were idle, and in rage,"Wretch," he exclaimed, "to us and to the gods,Whose presence thou pretendest, thou shalt payFor this thy fraud the punishment; unlessThou enter the recess, and speak no more,Of this world-war, this tumult of mankind,Thine own inventions." Then by fear compelled,At length the priestess sought the furthest depths,And stayed beside the tripods; and there cameInto her unaccustomed breast the god,Breathed from the living rock for centuriesUntouched; nor ever with a mightier powerDid Paean's inspiration seize the frameOf Delphic priestess; his pervading touchDrove out her former mind, expelled the man,And made her wholly his. In maddened tranceShe whirls throughout the cave, her locks erectWith horror, and the fillets of the godDashed to the ground; her steps unguided turnTo this side and to that; the tripods fallO'erturned; within her seethes the mighty fireOf angry Phoebus; nor with whip aloneHe urged her onwards, but with curb restrained;Nor was it given her by the god to speakAll that she knew; for into one vast mass (15)All time was gathered, and her panting chestGroaned 'neath the centuries. In order longAll things lay bare: the future yet unveiledStruggled for light; each fate required a voice;The compass of the seas, Creation's birth,Creation's death, the number of the sands,All these she knew. Thus on a former dayThe prophetess upon the Cuman shore, (16)Disdaining that her frenzy should be slaveTo other nations, from the boundless threadsChose out with pride of hand the fates of Rome.E'en so Phemonoe, for a time oppressedWith fates unnumbered, laboured ere she found,Beneath such mighty destinies concealed,Thine, Appius, who alone had'st sought the godIn land Castalian; then from foaming lipsFirst rushed the madness forth, and murmurs loudUttered with panting breath and blent with groans;Till through the spacious vault a voice at lengthBroke from the virgin conquered by the god:"From this great struggle thou, O Roman, freeEscap'st the threats of war: alive, in peace,Thou shalt possess the hollow in the coastOf vast Euboea." Thus she spake, no more.
Ye mystic tripods, guardians of the fatesAnd Paean, thou, from whom no day is hidBy heaven's high rulers, Master of the truth,Why fear'st thou to reveal the deaths of kings,Rome's murdered princes, and the latest doomOf her great Empire tottering to its fall,And all the bloodshed of that western land?Were yet the stars in doubt on Magnus' fateNot yet decreed, and did the gods yet shrinkFrom that, the greatest crime? Or wert thou dumbThat Fortune's sword for civil strife might wreakJust vengeance, and a Brutus' arm once moreStrike down the tyrant?
From the temple doorsRushed forth the prophetess in frenzy driven,Not all her knowledge uttered; and her eyes,Still troubled by the god who reigned within,Or filled with wild affright, or fired with rageGaze on the wide expanse: still works her faceConvulsive; on her cheeks a crimson blushWith ghastly pallor blent, though not of fear.Her weary heart throbs ever; and as seasBoom swollen by northern winds, she finds in sighs,All inarticulate, relief. But whileShe hastes from that dread light in which she sawThe fates, to common day, lo! on her pathThe darkness fell. Then by a Stygian draughtOf the forgetful river, Phoebus snatchedBack from her soul his secrets; and she fellYet hardly living.
Nor did Appius dreadApproaching death, but by dark oraclesBaffled, while yet the Empire of the worldHung in the balance, sought his promised realmIn Chalcis of Euboea. Yet to escapeAll ills of earth, the crash of war — what godCan give thee such a boon, but death alone?Far on the solitary shore a graveAwaits thee, where Carystos' marble crags (17)Draw in the passage of the sea, and whereThe fane of Rhamnus rises to the godsWho hate the proud, and where the ocean straitBoils in swift whirlpools, and Euripus drawsDeceitful in his tides, a bane to ships,Chalcidian vessels to bleak Aulis' shore.
But Caesar carried from the conquered westHis eagles to another world of war;When envying his victorious course the godsAlmost turned back the prosperous tide of fate.Not on the battle-field borne down by armsBut in his tents, within the rampart lines,The hoped-for prize of this unholy warSeemed for a moment gone. That faithful host,His comrades trusted in a hundred fields,Or that the falchion sheathed had lost its charm;Or weary of the mournful bugle callScarce ever silent; or replete with blood,Well nigh betrayed their general and soldFor hope of gain their honour and their cause.No other perilous shock gave surer proofHow trembled 'neath his feet the dizzy heightFrom which great Caesar looked. A moment sinceHis high behest drew nations to the field:Now, maimed of all, he sees that swords once drawnAre weapons for the soldier, not the chief.From the stern ranks no doubtful murmur rose;Not silent anger as when one conspires,His comrades doubting, feared himself in turn;Alone (he thinks) indignant at the wrongsWrought by the despot. In so great a hostDread found no place. Where thousands share the guiltCrime goes unpunished. Thus from dauntless throatsThey hurled their menace: "Caesar, give us leaveTo quit thy crimes; thou seek'st by land and seaThe sword to slay us; let the fields of GaulAnd far Iberia, and the world proclaimHow for thy victories our comrades fell.What boots it us that by an army's bloodThe Rhine and Rhone and all the northern landsThou hast subdued? Thou giv'st us civil warFor all these battles; such the prize. When fledThe Senate trembling, and when Rome was oursWhat homes or temples did we spoil? Our handsReek with offence! Aye, but our povertyProclaims our innocence! What end shall beOf arms and armies? What shall be enoughIf Rome suffice not? and what lies beyond?Behold these silvered locks, these nerveless handsAnd shrunken arms, once stalwart! In thy warsGone is the strength of life, gone all its pride!Dismiss thine aged soldiers to their deaths.How shameless is our prayer! Not on hard turfTo stretch our dying limbs; nor seek in vain,When parts the soul, a hand to close our eyes;Not with the helmet strike the stony clod: (19)Rather to feel the dear one's last embrace,And gain a humble but a separate tomb.Let nature end old age. And dost thou thinkWe only know not what degree of crimeWill fetch the highest price? What thou canst dareThese years have proved, or nothing; law divineNor human ordinance shall hold thine hand.Thou wert our leader on the banks of Rhine;Henceforth our equal; for the stain of crimeMakes all men like to like. Add that we serveA thankless chief: as fortune's gift he takesThe fruits of victory our arms have won.We are his fortunes, and his fates are oursTo fashion as we will. Boast that the godsShall do thy bidding! Nay, thy soldiers' willShall close the war." With threatening mien and speechThus through the camp the troops demand their chief.
When faith and loyalty are fled, and hopeFor aught but evil, thus may civil warIn mutiny and discord find its end!What general had not feared at such revolt?But mighty Caesar trusting on the throw,As was his wont, his fortune, and o'erjoyedTo front their anger raging at its heightUnflinching comes. No temples of the gods,Not Jove's high fane on the Tarpeian rock,Not Rome's high dames nor maidens had he grudgedTo their most savage lust: that they should askThe worst, his wish, and love the spoils of war.Nor feared he aught save order at the handsOf that unconquered host. Art thou not shamedThat strife should please thee only, now condemnedEven by thy minions? Shall they shrink from blood,They from the sword recoil? and thou rush onHeedless of guilt, through right and through unright,Nor learn that men may lay their arms asideYet bear to live? This civil butcheryEscapes thy grasp. Stay thou thy crimes at length;Nor force thy will on those who will no more.
Upon a turfy mound unmoved he stoodAnd, since he feared not, worthy to be feared;And thus while anger stirred his soul began:"Thou that with voice and hand didst rage but nowAgainst thine absent chief, behold me here;Here strike thy sword into this naked breast,To stay the war; and flee, if such thy wish.This mutiny devoid of daring deedBetrays your coward souls, betrays the youthWho tires of victories which gild the armsOf an unconquered chief, and yearns for flight.Well, leave me then to battle and to fate!I cast you forth; for every weapon left,Fortune shall find a man, to wield it well.Shall Magnus in his flight with such a fleetDraw nations in his train; and not to me asMy victories bring hosts, to whom shall fallThe prize of war accomplished, who shall reapYour laurels scorned, and scathless join the trainThat leads my chariot to the sacred hill?While you, despised in age and worn in war,Gaze on our triumph from the civic crowd.Think you your dastard flight shall give me pause?If all the rivers that now seek the seaWere to withdraw their waters, it would failBy not one inch, no more than by their flowIt rises now. Have then your efforts givenStrength to my cause? Not so: the heavenly godsStoop not so low; fate has no time to judgeYour lives and deaths. The fortunes of the worldFollow heroic souls: for the fit fewThe many live; and you who terrifiedWith me the northern and Iberian worlds,Would flee when led by Magnus. Strong in armsFor Caesar's cause was Labienus; (20) nowThat vile deserter, with his chief preferred,Wanders o'er land and sea. Nor were your faithOne whit more firm to me if, neither sideEspoused, you ceased from arms. Who leaves me once,Though not to fight against me with the foe,Joins not my ranks again. Surely the godsSmile on these arms who for so great a warGrant me fresh soldiers. From what heavy loadFortune relieves me! for the hands which aimedAt all, to which the world did not suffice,I now disarm, and for myself aloneReserve the conflict. Quit ye, then, my camp,'Quirites', (21) Caesar's soldiers now no more,And leave my standards to the grasp of men!Yet some who led this mad revolt I hold,Not as their captain now, but as their judge.Lie, traitors, prone on earth, stretch out the neckAnd take th' avenging blow. And thou whose strengthShall now support me, young and yet untaught,Behold the doom and learn to strike and die."
Such were his words of ire, and all the hostDrew back and trembled at the voice of himThey would depose, as though their very swordsWould from their scabbards leap at his commandThemselves unwilling; but he only fearedLest hand and blade to satisfy the doomMight be denied, till they submitting pledgedTheir lives and swords alike, beyond his hope.To strike and suffer (22) holds in surest thrallThe heart inured to guilt; and Caesar kept,By dreadful compact ratified in blood,Those whom he feared to lose.
He bids them marchUpon Brundusium, and recalls the shipsFrom soft Calabria's inlets and the pointOf Leucas, and the Salapinian marsh,Where sheltered Sipus nestles at the feetOf rich Garganus, jutting from the shoreIn huge escarpment that divides the wavesOf Hadria; on each hand, his seaward slopesBuffeted by the winds; or Auster borneFrom sweet Apulia, or the sterner blastOf Boreas rushing from Dalmatian strands.
But Caesar entered trembling Rome unarmed,Now taught to serve him in the garb of peace.Dictator named, to grant their prayers, forsooth:Consul, in honour of the roll of Rome.Then first of all the names by which we nowLie to our masters, men found out the use:For to preserve his right to wield the swordHe mixed the civil axes with his brands;With eagles, fasces; with an empty wordClothing his power; and stamped upon the timeA worthy designation; for what nameCould better mark the dread Pharsalian yearThan "Caesar, Consul"? (23) Now the famous fieldPretends its ancient ceremonies: callsThe tribes in order and divides the votesIn vain solemnity of empty urns.Nor do they heed the portents of the sky:Deaf were the augurs to the thunder roll;The owl flew on the left; yet were the birdsPropitious sworn. Then was the ancient nameDegraded first; and monthly Consuls, (24)Shorn of their rank, are chosen to mark the years.And Trojan Alba's (25) god (since Latium's fallDeserving not) beheld the wonted firesBlaze from his altars on the festal night.
Then through Apulia's fallows, that her hindsLeft all untilled, to sluggish weeds a preyPassed Caesar onward, swifter than the fireOf heaven, or tigress dam: until he reachedBrundusium's winding ramparts, built of oldBy Cretan colonists. There icy windsConstrained the billows, and his trembling fleetFeared for the winter storms nor dared the main.But Caesar's soul burned at the moments lostFor speedy battle, nor could brook delayWithin the port, indignant that the seaShould give safe passage to his routed foe:And thus he stirred his troops, in seas unskilled,With words of courage: "When the winter windHas seized on sky and ocean, firm its hold;But the inconstancy of cloudy springPermits no certain breezes to prevailUpon the billows. Straight shall be our course.No winding nooks of coast, but open seasStruck by the northern wind alone we plough,And may he bend the spars, and bear us swiftTo Grecian cities; else Pompeius' oars,Smiting the billows from Phaeacian (26) coasts,May catch our flagging sails. Cast loose the ropesFrom our victorious prows. Too long we wasteTempests that blow to bear us to our goal."
Now sank the sun to rest; the evening starShone on the darkening heaven, and the moonReigned with her paler light, when all the fleetFreed from retaining cables seized the main.With slackened sheet the canvas wooed the breeze,Which rose and fell and fitful died away,Till motionless the sails, and all the wavesWere still as deepest pool, where never windRipples the surface. Thus in Scythian climesCimmerian Bosphorus restrains the deepBound fast in frosty fetters; Ister's streams (27)No more impel the main, and ships constrainedStand fast in ice; and while in depths belowThe waves still murmur, loud the charger's hoofSounds on the surface, and the travelling wheelFurrows a track upon the frozen marsh.Cruel as tempest was the calm that layIn stagnant pools upon the mournful deep:Against the course of nature lay outstretchedA rigid ocean: 'twas as if the seaForgat its ancient ways and knew no moreThe ceaseless tides, nor any breeze of heaven,Nor quivered at the image of the sun,Mirrored upon its wave. For while the fleetHung in mid passage motionless, the foeMight hurry to attack, with sturdy strokeChurning the deep; or famine's deadly gripMight seize the ships becalmed. For dangers newNew vows they find. "May mighty winds ariseAnd rouse the ocean, and this sluggish plainCast off stagnation and be sea once more."Thus did they pray, but cloudless shone the sky,Unrippled slept the surface of the main;Until in misty clouds the moon aroseAnd stirred the depths, and moved the fleet alongTowards the Ceraunian headland; and the wavesAnd favouring breezes followed on the ships,Now speeding faster, till (their goal attained)They cast their anchors on Palaeste's (28) shore.
This land first saw the chiefs in neighbouring campsConfronted, which the streams of Apsus boundAnd swifter Genusus; a lengthy courseIs run by neither, but on Apsus' wavesScarce flowing from a marsh, the frequent boatFinds room to swim; while on the foamy bedOf Genusus by sun or shower compelledThe melted snows pour seawards. Here were met(So Fortune ordered it) the mighty pair;And in its woes the world yet vainly hopedThat brought to nearer touch their crime itselfMight bleed abhorrence: for from either campVoices were clearly heard and features seen.Nor e'er, Pompeius, since that distant dayWhen Caesar's daughter and thy spouse was reftBy pitiless fate away, nor left a pledge,Did thy loved kinsman (save on sands of Nile)So nearly look upon thy face again.
But Caesar's mind though frenzied for the fightWas forced to pause until Antonius broughtThe rearward troops; Antonius even nowRehearsing Leucas' fight. With prayers and threatsCaesar exhorts him. "Why delay the fates,Thou cause of evil to the suffering world?My speed hath won the major part: from theeFortune demands the final stroke alone.Do Libyan whirlpools with deceitful tidesUncertain separate us? Is the deepUntried to which I call? To unknown risksArt thou commanded? Caesar bids thee come,Thou sluggard, not to leave him. Long agoI ran my ships midway through sands and shoalsTo harbours held by foes; and dost thou fearMy friendly camp? I mourn the waste of daysWhich fate allotted us. Upon the wavesAnd winds I call unceasing: hold not backThy willing troops, but let them dare the sea;Here gladly shall they come to join my camp,Though risking shipwreck. Not in equal sharesThe world has fallen between us: thou aloneDost hold Italia, but Epirus IAnd all the lords of Rome." Twice called and thriceAntonius lingered still: but Caesar thoughtTo reap in full the favour of the gods,Not sit supine; and knowing danger yieldsTo whom heaven favours, he upon the wavesFeared by Antonius' fleets, in shallow boatEmbarked, and daring sought the further shore.
Now gentle night had brought repose from arms;And sleep, blest guardian of the poor man's couch,Restored the weary; and the camp was still.The hour was come that called the second watchWhen mighty Caesar, in the silence vastWith cautious tread advanced to such a deed (29)As slaves should dare not. Fortune for his guide,Alone he passes on, and o'er the guardStretched in repose he leaps, in secret wrathAt such a sleep. Pacing the winding beach,Fast to a sea-worn rock he finds a boatOn ocean's marge afloat. Hard by on shoreIts master dwelt within his humble home.No solid front it reared, for sterile rushAnd marshy reed enwoven formed the walls,Propped by a shallop with its bending sidesTurned upwards. Caesar's hand upon the doorKnocks twice and thrice until the fabric shook.Amyclas from his couch of soft seaweedArising, calls: "What shipwrecked sailor seeksMy humble home? Who hopes for aid from me,By fates adverse compelled?" He stirs the heapUpon the hearth, until a tiny sparkGlows in the darkness, and throws wide the door.Careless of war, he knew that civil strifeStoops not to cottages. Oh! happy lifeThat poverty affords! great gift of heavenToo little understood! what mansion wall,What temple of the gods, would feel no fearWhen Caesar called for entrance? Then the chief:"Enlarge thine hopes and look for better things.Do but my bidding, and on yonder shorePlace me, and thou shalt cease from one poor boatTo earn thy living; and in years to comeLook for a rich old age: and trust thy fatesTo those high gods whose wont it is to blessThe poor with sudden plenty." So he spakeE'en at such time in accents of command,For how could Caesar else? Amyclas said,"'Twere dangerous to brave the deep to-night.The sun descended not in ruddy cloudsOr peaceful rays to rest; part of his beamsPresaged a southern gale, the rest proclaimedA northern tempest; and his middle orb,Shorn of its strength, permitted human eyesTo gaze upon his grandeur; and the moonRose not with silver horns upon the nightNor pure in middle space; her slender pointsNot drawn aright, but blushing with the trackOf raging tempests, till her lurid lightWas sadly veiled within the clouds. AgainThe forest sounds; the surf upon the shore;The dolphin's mood, uncertain where to play;The sea-mew on the land; the heron usedTo wade among the shallows, borne aloftAnd soaring on his wings — all these alarm;The raven, too, who plunged his head in spray,As if to anticipate the coming rain,And trod the margin with unsteady gait.But if the cause demands, behold me thine.Either we reach the bidden shore, or elseStorm and the deep forbid — we can no more."
Thus said he loosed the boat and raised the sail.No sooner done than stars were seen to fallIn flaming furrows from the sky: nay, more;The pole star trembled in its place on high:Black horror marked the surging of the sea;The main was boiling in long tracts of foam,Uncertain of the wind, yet seized with storm.Then spake the captain of the trembling bark:"See what remorseless ocean has in store!Whether from east or west the storm may comeIs still uncertain, for as yet confusedThe billows tumble. Judged by clouds and skyA western tempest: by the murmuring deepA wild south-eastern gale shall sweep the sea.Nor bark nor man shall reach Hesperia's shoreIn this wild rage of waters. To returnBack on our course forbidden by the gods,Is our one refuge, and with labouring boatTo reach the shore ere yet the nearest landWay be too distant."
But great Caesar's trustWas in himself, to make all dangers yield.And thus he answered: "Scorn the threatening sea,Spread out thy canvas to the raging wind;If for thy pilot thou refusest heaven,Me in its stead receive. Alone in theeOne cause of terror just — thou dost not knowThy comrade, ne'er deserted by the gods,Whom fortune blesses e'en without a prayer.Break through the middle storm and trust in me.The burden of this fight fails not on usBut on the sky and ocean; and our barkShall swim the billows safe in him it bears.Nor shall the wind rage long: the boat itselfShall calm the waters. Flee the nearest shore,Steer for the ocean with unswerving hand:Then in the deep, when to our ship and usNo other port is given, believe thou hastCalabria's harbours. And dost thou not knowThe purpose of such havoc? Fortune seeksIn all this tumult of the sea and skyA boon for Caesar." Then a hurricaneSwooped on the boat and tore away the sheet:The fluttering sail fell on the fragile mast:And groaned the joints. From all the universeCommingled perils rush. In Atlas' seasFirst Corus (30) lifts his head, and stirs the depthsTo fury, and had forced upon the rocksWhole seas and oceans; but the chilly northDrove back the deep that doubted which was lord.But Scythian Aquilo prevailed, whose blastTossed up the main and showed as shallow poolsEach deep abyss; and yet was not the seaHeaped on the crags, for Corus' billows metThe waves of Boreas: such seas had clashedEven were the winds withdrawn; Eurus enragedBurst from the cave, and Notus black with rain,And all the winds from every part of heavenStrove for their own; and thus the ocean stayedWithin his boundaries. No petty seasRapt in the storm are whirled. The Tuscan deepInvades th' Aegean; in Ionian gulfsSounds wandering Hadria. How long the cragsWhich that day fell, the Ocean's blows had braved!What lofty peaks did vanquished earth resign!And yet on yonder coast such mighty wavesTook not their rise; from distant regions cameThose monster billows, driven on their courseBy that great current which surrounds the world. (31)Thus did the King of Heaven, when length of yearsWore out the forces of his thunder, callHis brother's trident to his help, what timeThe earth and sea one second kingdom formedAnd ocean knew no limit but the sky.Now, too, the sea had risen to the starsIn mighty mass, had not Olympus' chiefPressed down its waves with clouds: came not from heavenThat night, as others; but the murky airWas dim with pallor of the realms below; (32)The sky lay on the deep; within the cloudsThe waves received the rain: the lightning flashClove through the parted air a path obscuredBy mist and darkness: and the heavenly vaultsRe-echoed to the tumult, and the frameThat holds the sky was shaken. Nature fearedChaos returned, as though the elementsHad burst their bonds, and night had come to mixTh' infernal shades with heaven.
In such turmoilNot to have perished was their only hope.Far as from Leucas point the placid mainSpreads to the horizon, from the billow's crestThey viewed the dashing of th' infuriate sea;Thence sinking to the middle trough, their mastScarce topped the watery height on either hand,Their sails in clouds, their keel upon the ground.For all the sea was piled into the waves,And drawn from depths between laid bare the sand.The master of the boat forgot his art,For fear o'ercame; he knew not where to yieldOr where to meet the wave: but safety cameFrom ocean's self at war: one billow forcedThe vessel under, but a huger waveRepelled it upwards, and she rode the stormThrough every blast triumphant. Not the shoreOf humble Sason (33), nor Thessalia's coastIndented, not Ambracia's scanty portsDismay the sailors, but the giddy topsOf high Ceraunia's cliffs.
But Caesar now,Thinking the peril worthy of his fates:"Are such the labours of the gods?" exclaimed,"Bent on my downfall have they sought me thus,Here in this puny skiff in such a sea?If to the deep the glory of my fallIs due, and not to war, intrepid stillWhatever death they send shall strike me down.Let fate cut short the deeds that I would doAnd hasten on the end: the past is mine.The northern nations fell beneath my sword;My dreaded name compels the foe to flee.Pompeius yields me place; the people's voiceGave at my order what the wars denied.And all the titles which denote the powersKnown to the Roman state my name shall bear.Let none know this but thou who hear'st my prayers,Fortune, that Caesar summoned to the shades,Dictator, Consul, full of honours, diedEre his last prize was won. I ask no pompOf pyre or funeral; let my body lieMangled beneath the waves: I leave a nameThat men shall dread in ages yet to comeAnd all the earth shall honour." Thus he spake,When lo! a tenth gigantic billow raisedThe feeble keel, and where between the rocksA cleft gave safety, placed it on the shore.Thus in a moment fortune, kingdoms, lands,Once more were Caesar's.
But on his returnWhen daylight came, he entered not the campSilent as when he parted; for his friendsSoon pressed around him, and with weeping eyesIn accents welcome to his ears began:"Whither in reckless daring hast thou gone,Unpitying Caesar? Were these humble livesLeft here unguarded while thy limbs were given,Unsought for, to be scattered by the storm?When on thy breath so many nations hangFor life and safety, and so great a worldCalls thee its master, to have courted deathProves want of heart. Was none of all thy friendsDeserving held to join his fate with thine?When thou wast tossed upon the raging deepWe lay in slumber! Shame upon such sleep!And why thyself didst seek Italia's shores?'Twere cruel (such thy thought) to speak the wordThat bade another dare the furious sea.All men must bear what chance or fate may bring,The sudden peril and the stroke of death;But shall the ruler of the world attemptThe raging ocean? With incessant prayersWhy weary heaven? is it indeed enoughTo crown the war, that Fortune and the deepHave cast thee on our shores? And would'st thou useThe grace of favouring deities, to gainNot lordship, not the empire of the world,But lucky shipwreck!" Night dispersed, and soonThe sun beamed on them, and the wearied deep,The winds permitting, lulled its waves to rest.And when Antonius saw a breeze ariseFresh from a cloudless heaven, to break the sea,He loosed his ships which, by the pilots' handsAnd by the wind in equal order held,Swept as a marching host across the main.But night unfriendly from the seamen snatchedAll governance of sail, parting the shipsIn divers paths asunder. Like as cranesDeserting frozen Strymon for the streamsOf Nile, when winter falls, in casual linesOf wedge-like figures (34) first ascend the sky;But when in loftier heaven the southern breezeStrikes on their pinions tense, in loose arrayDispersed at large, in flight irregular,They wing their journey onwards. Stronger windsWith day returning blew the navy on,Past Lissus' shelter which they vainly sought,Till bare to northern blasts, Nymphaeum's port,But safe in southern, gave the fleet repose,For favouring winds came on.