Book 7

The eve of the battle of Pharsalia and the dream of Pompeius, lines The soldiers demand a battle, and are supported by Cicero in a speech, Pompeius yields; his speech, Prodigies, Pompeius' order of battle, Caesar rejoices and addresses his troops, Pompeius' speech, Reflections on the result of the battle, Defeat of Pompeius, Caesar in the fight, Address to Brutus, Death of Domitius, Lament over the battle, Pompeius flies, Caesar occupies Pompeius' camp and leaves the dead unburied, which are devoured by birds and beasts, 973-997 Apostrophe to Thessaly,

NE'ER to the summons of the Eternal laws

More slowly Titan rose, nor drave his steeds,

Forced by the sky revolving, up the heaven,

With gloomier presage; wishing to endure

The pangs of ravished light, and dark eclipse;

And drew the mists up, not to feed his flames,

But lest his light upon Thessalian earth

Might fall undimmed.

Pompeius on that morn,

To him the latest day of happy life,

In troubled sleep an empty dream conceived.

For in the watches of the night he heard

Innumerable Romans shout his name

Within his theatre; the benches vied

To raise his fame and place him with the gods;

As once in youth, when victory was won

O'er conquered tribes whom swift Iberus girds,

And when Sertorius' armies fought and fled,

He sat triumphant for the west subdued,

In pure white gown, and heard the Senate cheer;

No less majestic as a Roman knight

Than had the purple robe adorned his car.

Perhaps, as ills drew near, his anxious soul,

Shunning the future, wooed the happy past;

Or, as is wont, prophetic slumber showed

That which was not to be, by doubtful forms

Misleading; or as envious Fate forbade

Return to Italy, this glimpse of Rome

Kind Fortune gave. Break not his latest sleep,

Ye sentinels; let not the trumpet call

Strike on his ear: for on the morrow's night

Shapes of the battle lost, of death and war

Shall crowd his rest with terrors. Whence shalt thou

The poor man's happiness of sleep regain?

Happy if thus, e'en thus, thy Rome could see

Once more her captain! Would the gods had given

To thee and to thy country one day yet

To reap the latest fruit of such a love:

Though sure of fate to come! Thou marchest on

As though by heaven ordained in Rome to die;

She, conscious ever of her prayers for thee

Heard by the gods, deemed not the fates decreed

Such evil destiny, that she should lose

The last sad solace of her Magnus' tomb.

Then young and old had blent their tears for thee,

And child unbidden; women torn their hair

And struck their bosoms as for Brutus dead.

E'en now though trembling at the victor's sword,

Though cruel Caesar herald thy defeat,

Yet shall they grieve, while at the Thunderer's throne

They offer incense and the laurel wreath.

Ah, wretched fate! In silence must they groan;

Nor in that theatre which heard thy praise

Proclaim their sorrow for Pompeius dead.

The stars had fled before the growing morn,

When eager voices (as the fates drew on

The world to ruin) round Pompeius' tent

Ask for the signal. What! shall those condemned

To die ere fall of eve, provoke the hour

Of hastening death, demand the fatal doom

Their own, their country's? 'Magnus fears,' they cry,

He's patient of his kinsman, slow to strike,

'And fondly holds beneath his sway the world;

'So dreads a peace.' And kings from Orient lands,

And peoples, eager for their distant homes,

Already murmured at the lengthy war.

Thus has it pleased the gods, when woe impends

On guilty men, to make them seem its cause.

We court disaster, crave the fatal sword.

Of Magnus' camp Pharsalia was the prayer;

For Tullius, of all the sons of Rome

Chief orator, beneath whose civil rule

Fierce Catiline at the peace-compelling axe

Trembled and fled, arose, to Magnus' ear

Bearing the voice of all. To him was war

Grown hateful, and he longed once more to hear

The Senate's plaudits; and with eloquent lips

He lent persuasion to the weaker cause.

Fortune, Pompeius, for her gifts to thee

'Asks this one boon, that thou shouldst use her now.

Here at thy feet thy leading captains lie;

' And here thy monarchs, and a suppliant world

' Entreats thee prostrate for thy kinsman's fall.

' So long shall Caesar plunge the world in war?

' Swift was thy tread when these proud nations fell;

' How deep their shame, and justly, should delay

'Now mar thy conquests! Where thy trust in Fate,

Thy fervour where? Ingrate! Dost dread the gods,

' Or think they favour not the Senate's cause?

' Thy troops unbidden shall the standards seize

' And conquer; thou in shame be forced to win.

' If at the Senate's orders and for us

' The war is waged, then give to us the right

' To choose the battle-field. Why dost thou keep

' From Caesar's throat the swords of all the world?

' The weapon quivers in the eager hand:

' Scarce one awaits the signal. Strike at once,

' Or without thee the trumpets sound the frav.

' Art thou the Senate's comrade or her lord?

' We wait your answer.'

But Pompeius groaned;

His mind was adverse, but he felt the fates

Opposed his wish, and knew the hand divine.

'Since all desire it, and the fates prevail,

' So let it be; your leader now no more,

' I share the labours of the battle-field.

' Let Fortune roll the nations of the earth

' In one red ruin; myriads of mankind

' See their last sun to-day. Yet, Rome, I swear,

' This day of blood was forced upon thy son.

' Without a wound, the prizes of the war

' Might have been thine, and he who broke the peace

' In peace forgotten. Whence this lust for crime?

' Shall bloodless victories in civil war

' Be shunned, not sought? We've ravished from our foe

All boundless seas, and land; his starving troops

' Have snatched earth's crop half-grown, in vain attempt

' Their hunger to appease; they prayed for death,

' Sought for the sword-thrust, and within our ranks

' Were fain to mix their life-blood with your own.

' Much of the war is done: the conscript youth

' Whose heart beats high, who burns to join the fray

' (Though men fight hard in terror of defeat),

' The shock of onset need no longer fear.

' Bravest is he who promptly meets the ill

' When fate commands it and the moment comes,

Yet brooks delay, in prudence; and shall we,

' Our happy state enjoying, risk it all?

' Trust to the sword the fortunes of the world?

' Not victory, but battle, ye demand.

' Do thou, O Fortune, of the Roman state

' Who mad'st Pompeius guardian, from his hands

' Take back the charge grown weightier, and thyself

' Commit its safety to the chance of war.

· Nor blame nor glory shall be mine to-day.

'Thy prayers unjustly, Caesar, have prevailed:

' We fight! What wickedness, what woes on men,

' Destruction on what realms this dawn shall bring!

' Crimson with Roman blood yon stream shall run.

' Would that (without the ruin of our cause)

' The first fell bolt hurled on this cursed day

' Might strike me lifeless! Victory to me

' Were not more joyful, for this battle brings

' A name of pity or a name of hate.

' The loser bears the burden of defeat;

' The victor wins, but conquest is a crime.'

Thus to the soldiers, burning for the fray,

He yields, forbidding, and throws down the reins.

So may a sailor give the winds control

Upon his barque, which, driven by the seas,

Bears him an idle burden. Now the camp

Hums with impatience, and the brave man's heart

With beats tumultuous throbs against his breast;

And all the host had standing in their looks

The paleness of the death that was to come.

On that day's fight 'twas manifest that Rome

And all the future destinies of man

Hung trembling; and by weightier dread possessed,

They knew not danger. Who would fear for self

Should ocean rise and whelm the mountain tops,

And sun and sky descend upon the earth

In universal chaos? Every mind

Is bent upon Pompeius, and on Rome.

They trust no sword until its deadly point

Glows on the sharpening stone; no lance will serve

Till straightened for the fray; each bow is strung

Anew, and arrows chosen for their work

Fill all the quivers; horsemen try the curb

And fit the bridle rein and whet the spur.

If toils divine with human may compare,

'Twas thus, when Phlegra bore the giant crew,

In Etna 's furnace glowed the sword of Mars,

Neptunus' trident felt the flame once more;

And great Apollo after Python slain

Sharpened his darts afresh: on Pallas' shield

Was spread anew the dread Medusa's hair;

And for the battle in Pallene 's fields

The Cyclops forged new thunderbolts for Jove.

Yet Fortune failed not, as they sought the field,

In various presage of the ills to come;

All heaven opposed their march: portentous fire

In columns filled the plain, and torches blazed:

And thirsty whirlwinds mixed with meteor bolts

Smote on them as they strode, whose sulphurous flames

Perplexed the vision. Crests were struck from helms;

The melted sword-blade flowed upon the hilt:

The spear ran liquid, and the hurtful steel

Smoked with a sulphur that had come from heaven.

Nay, more, the standards, hid by swarms of bees

Innumerable, weighed the bearer down,

Scarce lifted from the earth; bedewed with tears;

No more of Rome the standards, or her state.

And from the altar fled the frantic bull

To fields afar; nor was a victim found

To grace the sacrifice of coming doom.

But thou, O Caesar, to what gods of ill

Didst thou appeal? What furies didst thou call,

What powers of madness and what Stygian Kings

Whelmed in th' abyss of hell? Didst favour gain

By sacrifice in this thine impious war?

Strange sights were seen; or caused by hands divine

Or due to fearful fancy. Haemus ' top

Plunged headlong in the valley, Pindus met

With high Olympus, while at Ossa's feet

Red ran Boebeis, and Pharsalia's field

Gave warlike voices as in depth of night.

Now darkness came upon their wondering gaze,

Now daylight pale and wan, their helmets wreathed

In pallid mist; the spirits of their sires

Hovered in air, and shades of kindred dead

Passed flitting through the gloom. Yet had the host,

Conscious of guilty prayers, and of the hope

To do to death their brothers and their sires,

One solace: that they found in hearts amazed

With horrors, and in earth and air distraught,

A happy omen of the crimes to come.

Was't strange that peoples whom their latest day

Of happy life awaited (if the mind

Of man foreknows) should tremble with affright?

Romans who dwelt by far Araxes' stream,

And Tyrian Gades, in whatever clime,

'Neath every sky, struck by mysterious dread

Were plunged in sorrow-yet rebuked the tear,

For yet they knew not of the fatal day.

Thus on Euganean hills where sulphurous fumes

Disclose the rise of Aponus from earth,

And where Timavus broadens in the meads,

An augur spake: 'The last great day is come;

' To-day in battle meet the impious arms

' Of Caesar and of Magnus.' Or he saw

The bolts of Jupiter, predicting ill;

Or else the sky discordant o'er the space

Of heaven, from pole to pole; or else perchance

The sun was sad and misty in the height

And told the battle by his wasted beams.

By Nature's fiat that Thessalian day

Passed not as others; if the gifted sense

Of reading portents had been given to all,

All men had known Pharsalia. Gods of heaven!

How do ye mark the great ones of the earth!

The world gives tokens of their weal or woe;

The sky records their fates: in distant climes

To future races shall their tale be told,

Or by the fame alone of mighty deeds

Had in remembrance, or by this my care

Borne through the centuries: and men shall read

In hope and fear the story of the war

And breathless pray, as though it were to come,

For that long since accomplished; and for thee

E'en then, Pompeius, shall that prayer be given.

Reflected from their arms, th' opposing sun

Filled all the slope with radiance as they marched

In ordered ranks to that ill-fated fight,

And stood arranged for battle. On the left

Thou, Lentulus, hadst charge; two legions there,

The fourth, and bravest of them all, the first:

While on the right, Domitius, ever stanch,

Though fates be adverse, stood: in middle line

The hardy soldiers from Cilician lands,

In Scipio's care; their chief in Libyan days,

To-day their comrade. By Enipeus' pools

And by the rivulets, the mountain troops

Of Cappadocia, and loose of rein

Thy squadrons, Pontus: on the firmer ground

Galatia 's tetrarchs and the greater kings;

And all the purple-robed, the slaves of Rome.

Numidian hordes were there from Afric shores,

There Creta 's host and Ituraeans found

Full space to wing their arrows; there the tribes

From brave Iberia clashed their shields, and there

Gaul stood arrayed against her ancient foe.

Let all the nations be the victor's prize,

None grace in future a triumphal car;

This fight demands the slaughter of a world.

Caesar that day to send his troops for spoil

Had left his tent, when on the further hill

Behold! his foe descending to the plain.

The moment asked for by a thousand prayers

Is come, which puts his fortune on the risk

Of imminent war, to win or lose it all.

For burning with desire of kingly power

His eager soul ill brooked the small delay

This civil war compelled: each instant lost

Robbed from his due! But when at length he knew

The last great conflict come, the fight supreme,

Whose prize the leadership of all the world:

And felt the ruin nodding to its fall:

Swiftest to strike, yet for a little space

His rage for battle failed; the spirit bold

To pledge itself the issue, wavered now:

For Magnus' fortunes gave no room for hope,

Though Caesar's none for fear. Deep in his soul

Such doubt was hidden, as to rouse the throng

He spake of victory: ' Ye men of Rome

' Who made my fortunes, host that won the world!

'Prayed for so oft, the dawn of fight is come.

'No more entreat the gods: with sword in hand

'Seize on our fates; and Caesar in your deeds

This day is great or little. This the day

'For which I hold since Rubicon was passed

Your promise given: for this we flew to arms:

'For this deferred the triumphs which we won,

'And which the foe forbad: this gives you back

' Your homes and kindred, and the peaceful farm,

' Your prize for years of service in the field.

' And by the fates' command this day shall prove

' Whose quarrel juster: for defeat is guilt

' To him on whom it falls. If in my cause

' With fire and sword ye did your country wrong,

' Strike for acquittal! Should another judge

' This war, not Caesar, none were blameless found.

' Not for my sake this battle, but for you,

' To give you, soldiers, liberty and law

'Gainst all the world. Wishful myself for life

' Apart from public cares, and for the gown

' That robes the private citizen, I refuse

' To yield from office till the law allows

' Your right in all things. On my shoulders rest

' All blame; all power be yours. Nor deep the blood

' Between yourselves and conquest. Grecian schools

' Of exercise and wrestling send us here

' Their chosen darlings to await your swords;

' And scarcely armed for war, a dissonant crowd

' Barbaric, that will start to hear our trump,

' Nay, their own clamour. Not in civil strife

' Your blows shall fall-the battle of to-day

' Sweeps from the earth the enemies of Rome.

' Dash through these cowards and their vaunted kings:

' One stroke of sword and all the world is yours.

' Make plain to all men that the crowds who decked

'Pompeius' hundred pageants scarce were fit

'For one poor triumph. Shall Armenia care

'Who leads her masters, or barbarians shed

'One drop of blood to make Pompeius chief

'O'er our Italia? Rome, 'tis Rome they hate,

'Their lord and master: yet they hate the most

'Those whom they know. My fate is in the hands

'Of you, mine own true soldiers, proved in all

'The wars we fought in Gallia. When the sword

'Of each of you shall strike, I know the hand:

'The javelin's flight to me betrays the arm

'That launched it hurtling: and to-day once more

'I see the faces stern, the threatening eyes,

'Unfailing proofs of victory to come.

'E'en now the battle rushes on my sight;

'Kings trodden down and scattered senators

'Fill all th' ensanguined plain, and peoples float

'Unnumbered on the crimson tide of death.

'Enough of words-I but delay the fates;

'And you who burn to dash into the fray,

'Forgive the pause. I tremble with the hope

'Thus finding utterance. I ne'er have seen

'The mighty gods so near; this little field

'Alone dividing us; their hands are full

'Of my predestined honours: for 'tis I

'Who when this war is done shall have the power

'O'er all that peoples, all that kings enjoy

'To shower it where I will. But has the sky

'Swerved from its course, has some high star of heaven

'Turned backwards, that such mighty deeds should pass

'Here on Thessalian earth? To-day we reap

' Of all our wars the harvest or the doom.

' Think of the cross that threats us, and the chain,

' Limbs hacked asunder, Caesar's head displayed

' Upon the rostra; and that narrow field

' Piled up with slaughter: for this hostile chief

' Is savage Sulla's pupil. 'Tis for you,

' If conquered, that I grieve: my lot apart

' Is cast long since. This sword, should one of you

' Turn from the battle ere the foe be fled,

' Shall rob the life of Caesar. O ye gods,

' Drawn down from heaven by the throes of Rome,

' May he be conqueror who shall not draw

' Against the vanquished an inhuman sword,

' Nor count it as a crime if men of Rome

' Preferred another's standard to his own.

' Pompeius' sword drank deep Italian blood

'When cabined in yon space the brave man's arm

' No more found room to strike. But you, I pray,

' Touch not the foe who turns him from the fight,

' A fellow citizen, a foe no more.

' But while the gleaming weapons threaten still,

' Let no fond memories unnerve the arm,

' No pious thought of father or of kin;

' But full in face of brother or of sire,

' Drive home the blade: of victims e'en unknown

' Your foes account the slaughter as a crime.

' Spare not our camp, but lay the rampart low

' And fill the fosse with ruin; not a man

' But holds his post within the ranks to-day.

' And yonder tents, deserted by the foe,

' Shall give us shelter when the rout is done.'

Scarce had he paused; they snatch the hasty meal,

And seize their armour and with swift acclaim

Welcome the chief's predictions of the day,

Tread low their camp when rushing to the fight;

And take their post: nor word nor order given,

In fate they put their trust. Nor, hadst thou placed

All Caesars there, all striving for the throne

Of Rome their city, had their serried ranks

With speedier tread dashed down upon the foe.

But when Pompeius saw the hostile troops

Move forth in order and demand the fight,

And knew the gods' approval of the day,

He stood astonied, while a deadly chill

Struck to his heart-omen itself of woe,

That such a chief should at the call to arms,

Thus dread the issue: but with fear repressed,

Borne on his noble steed along the line

Of all his forces, thus he spake: ' The day

'Your bravery demands, that final end

Of civil war ye asked for, is at hand.

Put forth your strength, your all; the sword to-day

Does its last work. One crowded hour is charged

With nations' destinies. Whoe'er of you

Longs for his land and home, his wife and child,

Seek them with sword. Here in mid battle-field,

The gods place all at stake. Our better right

Bids us expect their favour; they shall dip

Your brands in Caesar's blood, and thus shall give

Another sanction to the laws of Rome,

Our cause of battle. If for him were meant

An empire o'er the world, had they not put

An end to Magnus' life? That I am chief

Of all these mingled peoples and of Rome

Disproves an angry heaven. See here combined

'All means of victory. Noble men have sought

'Unasked the risks of war. Our soldiers boast

'Ancestral statues. If to us were given

'A Curius, if Camillus were returned,

Or patriot Decius to devote his life,

'Here would they take their stand. From furthest east

'All nations gathered, cities as the sand

'Unnumbered, give their aid: a world complete

'Serves 'neath our standards. North and south and all

'Who have their being 'neath the starry vault,

'Here meet in arms conjoined: and shall we not

Crush with our closing wings this paltry foe?

'Few shall find room to strike; the rest with voice

'Must be content to aid: for Caesar's ranks

'Suffice not for us. Think from Rome 's high walls

' The matrons watch you with their hair unbound;

' Think that the Senate hoar, too old for arms,

' With snowy locks outspread; and Rome herself,

' The world's high mistress, fearing now, alas!

' A despot-all exhort you to the fight.

' Think that the people that is and that shall be

'Joins in the prayer-in freedom to be born,

' In freedom die, their wish. If 'mid these vows

' Be still found place for mine, with wife and child,

' So far as Imperator may, I bend

' Before you suppliant-unless this fight

' Be won, behold me exile, your disgrace,

' My kinsman's scorn. From this, 'tis yours to save.

' Then save! Nor in the latest stage of life,

' Let Magnus be a slave.'

Then burned their souls

At these his words, indignant at the thought,

And Rome rose up within them, and to die

Was welcome.

Thus alike with hearts aflame

Moved either host to battle, one in fear

And one in hope of empire. These hands shall do

Such work as not the rolling centuries,

Not all mankind, though free from sword and war,

Shall e'er make good. Nations that were to live

This fight shall crush, and peoples pre-ordained

To make the history of the coming world

Shall come not to the birth. The Latin names

Shall sound as fables in the ears of men,

And ruins loaded with the dust of years

Shall hardly mark her cities. Alba's hill,

Home of our gods, no human foot shall tread,

Save of some Senator at the nightly feast

By Numa's orders founded-he compelled

Serves his high office. Void and desolate

Are Veii, Cora and Laurentum's hold;

Yet not the tooth of envious time destroyed

These storied monuments-'twas civil war

That rased their citadels. Where now has fled

The teeming life that once Italia knew?

Not all the earth can furnish her with men:

Untenanted her dwellings and her fields:

Slaves till her soil: one city holds us all:

Crumbling to ruin, the ancestral roof

Finds none on whom to fall; and Rome herself,

Void of her citizens, draws within her gates

The dregs of all the world. That none might wage

A civil war again, thus deeply drank

Pharsalia's fight the life-blood of her sons.

Dark in the calendar of Rome for aye,

The days when Allia and Cannae fell:

And shall Pharsalus ' morn, darkest of all,

Stand on the page unmarked? Alas, the fates!

Not plague nor pestilence nor famine's rage,

Not cities given to the flames, nor towns

Trembling at shock of earthquake shall weigh down

Such heroes lost, when Fortune's ruthless hand

Lops at one blow the gift of centuries,

Leaders and men embattled. How great art thou,

Rome, in thy fall! Stretched to the widest bounds

War upon war laid nations at thy feet

Till flaming Titan nigh to either pole

Beheld thine empire; and the furthest east

Was almost thine, till day and night and sky

For thee revolved, and all the stars could see

Throughout their course was Roman. But the fates

In one dread day of slaughter and despair

Turned back the centuries and spoke thy doom.

And now the Indian fears the axe no more

Once emblem of thy power, now no more

The girded Consul curbs the Getan horde,

Or in Sarmatian furrows guides the share:

Still Parthia boasts her triumphs unavenged:

Foul is the public life; and Freedom, fled

To furthest Earth beyond the Tigris stream,

And Rhine 's broad river, wandering at her will

'Mid Teuton hordes and Scythian, though by sword

Sought, yet returns not. Would that from the day

When Romulus, aided by the vulture's flight,

Ill-omened, raised within that hateful grove

Rome 's earliest walls, down to the crimsoned field

In dire Thessalia fought, she ne'er had known

Italia 's peoples! Did the Bruti strike

In vain for liberty? Why laws and rights

Sanctioned by all the annals designate

With consular titles? Happier far the Medes

And blest Arabia, and the Eastern lands

Held by a kindlier fate in despot rule!

That nation serves the worst which serves with shame.

No guardian gods watch over us from heaven:

Jove is no king; let ages whirl along

In blind confusion: from his throne supreme

Shall he behold such carnage and restrain

His thunderbolts? On Mimas shall he hurl

His fires, on Rhodope and OEta's woods

Unmeriting such chastisement, and leave

This life to Cassius' hand? On Argos fell

At grim Thyestes' feast untimely night

By him thus hastened; shall Thessalia 's land

Receive full daylight, wielding kindred swords

In fathers' hands and brothers'? Careless of men

Are all the gods. Yet for this day of doom

Such vengeance have we reaped as deities

May give to mortals; for these wars shall raise

Our parted Caesars to the gods; and Rome

Shall deck their effigies with thunderbolts,

And stars and rays, and in the very fanes

Swear by the shades of men.

With swift advance

They seize the space that yet delays the fates

Till short the span dividing. Then they gaze

For one short moment where may fall the spear,

What hand may deal their death, what monstrous task

Soon shall be theirs; and all in arms they see,

In reach of stroke, their brothers and their sires

With front opposing; yet to yield their ground

It pleased them not. But all the host was dumb

With horror; cold upon each loving heart,

Awe-struck, the life-blood pressed; and all men held

With arms outstretched their javelins for a time,

Poised yet unthrown. Now may th' avenging gods

Allot thee, Crastinus, not such a death

As all men else do suffer! In the tomb

May'st thou have feeling and remembrance still!

For thine the hand that first flung forth the dart,

Which stained with Roman blood Thessalia 's earth.

Madman! To speed thy lance when Caesar's self

Still held his hand! Then from the clarions broke

The strident summons, and the trumpets blared

Responsive signal. Upward to the vault

The sound re-echoes where nor clouds may reach

Nor thunder penetrate; and Haemus ' slopes

Reverberate to Pelion the din;

Pindus re-echoes; OEta's lofty rocks

Groan, and Pangaean cliffs, till at their rage

Borne back from all the earth they shook for fear.

Unnumbered darts they hurl, with prayers diverse;

Some hope to wound: others, in secret, yearn

For hands still innocent. Chance rules supreme,

And wayward Fortune upon whom she wills

Makes fall the guilt. Yet, for the hatred bred

By civil war suffices spear nor lance,

Urged on their flight afar: the hand must grip

The sword and drive it to the foeman's heart.

But while Pompeius' ranks, shield wedged to shield,

Were ranged in dense array, and scarce had space

To draw the blade, came rushing at the charge

Full on the central column Caesar's host,

Mad for the battle. Man nor arms could stay

The crash of onset, and the furious sword

Clove through the stubborn panoply to the flesh,

There only stayed. One army struck-their foes

Struck not in answer; Magnus' swords were cold,

But Caesar's reeked with slaughter and with guilt.

Nor Fortune lingered, but decreed the doom

Which swept the ruins of a world away.

Soon as withdrawn from all the spacious plain,

Pompeius' horse was ranged upon the flanks;

Passed through the outer files, the lighter armed

Of all the nations joined the central strife,

With divers weapons armed, but all for blood

Of Rome athirst: then blazing torches flew,

Arrows and stones, and ponderous balls of lead

Molten by speed of passage through the air.

There Ituraean archers and the Mede

Winged forth their shafts unaimed, till all the sky

Grew dark with missiles hurled; and from the night

Brooding above, Death struck his victims down.

Guiltless such blow, while all the crime was heaped

Upon the Roman spear. In line oblique

Behind the standards Caesar in reserve

Had placed some companies of foot, in fear

The foremost ranks might waver. These at his word,

No trumpet sounding, break upon the ranks

Of Magnus' horsemen where they rode at large

Flanking the battle. They, unshamed of fear

And careless of the fray, when first a steed

Pierced through by javelin spurned with sounding hoof

The temples of his rider, turned the rein,

And through their comrades spurring from the field

In panic, proved that not with warring Rome

Barbarians may grapple. Then arose

Immeasurable carnage: here the sword,

There stood the victim, and the victor's arm

Wearied of slaughter. Oh, that to thy plains,

Pharsalia, might suffice the crimson stream

From hosts barbarian, nor other blood

Pollute thy fountains' sources! these alone

Shall clothe thy pastures with the bones of men!

Or if thy fields must run with Roman blood

Then spare the nations who in times to come

Must be her peoples!

Now the terror spread

Through all the army, and the favouring fates

Decreed for Caesar's triumph: and the war

Ceased in the wider plain, though still ablaze

Where stood the chosen of Pompeius' force,

Upholding yet the fight. Not here allies

Begged from some distant king to wield the sword:

Here were the Roman sons, the sires of Rome,

Here the last frenzy and the last despair:

Here, Caesar, was thy crime: and here shall stay

My Muse repelled: no poesy of mine

Shall tell the horrors of the final strife,

Nor for the coming ages paint the deeds

Which civil war permits. Be all obscured

In deepest darkness! Spare the useless tear

And vain lament, and let the deeds that fell

In that last fight of Rome remain unsung.

But Caesar adding fury to the breasts

Already flaming with the rage of war,

That each might bear his portion of the guilt

Which stained the host, unflinching through the ranks

Passed at his will. He looked upon the brands,

These reddened only at the point, and those

Streaming with blood and gory to the hilt:

He marks the hand which trembling grasped the sword,

Or held it idle, and the cheek that grew

Pale at the blow, and that which at his words

Glowed with the joy of battle: midst the dead

He treads the plain and on each gaping wound

Presses his hand to keep the life within.

Thus Caesar passed: and where his footsteps fell

As when Bellona shakes her crimson lash,

Or Mavors scourges on the Thracian mares

When shunning the dread face on Pallas' shield,

He drives his chariot, there arose a night

Dark with huge slaughter and with crime, and groans

As of a voice immense, and sound of arms

As fell the wearer, and of sword on sword

Crashed into fragments. With a ready hand

Caesar supplies the weapon and bids strike

Full at the visage; and with lance reversed

Urges the flagging ranks and stirs the fight.

Where flows the nation's blood, where beats the heart,

Knowing, he bids them spare the common herd,

But seeks the senators-thus Rome he strikes,

Thus the last hold of Freedom. In the fray,

Then fell the nobles with their mighty names

Of ancient prowess; there Metellus' sons,

Corvini, Lepidi, Torquati too,

Not once nor twice the conquerors of kings,

First of all men, Pompeius' name except,

Lay dead upon the field.

But, Brutus, where,

Where was thy sword? Veiled by a common helm

Unknown thou wanderest. Thy country's pride,

Hope of the Senate, thou (for none besides);

Thou latest scion of that race of pride,

Whose fearless deeds the centuries record,

Tempt not the battle, nor provoke the doom!

Awaits thee on Philippi 's fated field

Thy Thessaly. Not here shalt thou prevail

'Gainst Caesar's life. Not yet hath he surpassed

The height of power and deserved a death

Noble at Brutus' hands-then let him live,

Thy fated victim!

There upon the field

Lay all the honour of Rome; no common stream

Mixed with the purple tide. And yet of all

Who noble fell, one only now I sing,

Thee, brave Domitius. Whene'er the day

Was adverse to the fortunes of thy chief

Thine was the arm which vainly stayed the fight.

Vanquished so oft by Caesar, now 'twas thine

Yet free to perish. By a thousand wounds

Came welcome death, nor had thy conqueror power

Again to pardon. Caesar stood and saw

The dark blood welling forth and death at hand,

And thus in words of scorn: ' And dost thou lie,

'Domitius, there? And did Pompeius name

'Thee his successor, thee? Why leavest thou then

His standards helpless?' But the parting life

Still faintly throbbed within Domitius' breast,

Thus finding utterance: 'Yet thou hast not won

Thy hateful prize, for doubtful are the fates;

'Nor thou the master, Caesar; free as yet,

'With great Pompeius for my leader still,

' Warring no more, I seek the silent shades,

Yet with this hope in death, that thou subdued

'To Magnus and to me in grievous guise

'Mayst pay atonement.' So he spake: no more;

Then closed his eyes in death.

'Twere shame to shed,

When thus a world was perishing, the tear

Meet for each fate, or sing the wound that reft

Each life away. One spurned upon the soil

His vitals as they trailed; one faced the foe

And as the sword struck deep into his throat

Breathed forth his life: another fell to earth

Prone at the stroke; one stood though shorn of limb;

Glanced from this breast unharmed the quivering spear;

That it transfixed to earth. Here from the veins

Spouted the life-blood, till the foeman's arms

Were crimsoned. One his brother slew, nor dared

To spoil the corse, till severed from the neck

He flung the head afar. Another dashed

Full in his father's teeth the fatal sword,

By murderous frenzy striving to disprove

His kinship with the slain. Yet for each death

We find no separate dirge, nor weep for men

When peoples fell. Thus, Rome, thy doom was wrought

At dread Pharsalus. Not, as in other fields,

By soldiers slain, or captains; here were swept

Whole nations to the death; Assyria here,

Achaia, Pontus; and the blood of Rome

Gushing in torrents forth, forbade the rest

To stagnate on the plain. Nor life was reft,

Nor safety only then; but reeled the world

And all her manifold peoples at the blow

In that day's battle dealt; nor only then

Felt, but in all the times that were to come.

Those swords gave servitude to every age

That shall be slavish; by our sires was shaped

For us our destiny, the despot yoke.

Yet have we trembled not, nor feared to bare

Our throats to slaughter, nor to face the foe:

We bear the penalty for others' shame,

Such be our doom; yet, Fortune, sharing not

In that last battle, 'twas our right to strike

One blow for freedom ere we served our lord.

Now saw Pompeius, grieving, that the gods

Had left his side, and knew the fates of Rome

Passed from his governance; yet all the blood

That filled the field scarce brought him to confess

His fortunes fled. A little hill he sought

Whence to descry the battle raging still

Upon the plain, which when he nearer stood

The warring ranks concealed. Thence did the chief

Gaze on unnumbered swords that flashed in air

And sought his ruin; and the tide of blood

In which his host had perished. Yet not as those

Who, prostrate fallen, would drag nations down

To share their evil fate, Pompeius did.

Still were the gods thought worthy of his prayers

To give him solace, in that after him

Might live his Romans. 'Spare, ye gods,' he said,

Nor lay whole peoples low; my fall attained,

The world and Rome may stand. And if ye need

More bloodshed, here on me, my wife, and sons

'Wreak out your vengeance-pledges to the fates

Such have we given. Too little for the war

Is our destruction? Doth the carnage fail,

The world escaping? Magnus' fortunes lost,

Why doom all else beside him? ' Thus he cried,

And passed amid his standards, and recalled

His vanquished host that rushed on fate declared.

Not for his sake such carnage should be wrought.

So thought Pompeius; nor the foeman's sword

He feared, nor death; but lest upon his fall

To quit their chief his soldiers might refuse,

And o'er his prostrate corpse a world in arms

Might find its ruin: or perchance he wished

From Caesar's eager eyes to veil his death.

In vain, unhappy! for the fates decree

He shall behold, shorn from the bleeding trunk,

Again thy visage. And thou, too, his spouse,

Beloved Cornelia, didst cause his flight;

Thy longed-for features; yet he shall not die

When thou art present.

Then upon his steed,

Though fearing not the weapons at his back,

Pompeius fled, his mighty soul prepared

To meet his final doom. He saw thy field,

Pharsalia, tearless and without a groan;

For solemn grief and majesty of mien

Were in his face, as for the woes of Rome.

No pride in him the day of victory found,

Nor rout shall find despair; alike in days

When fickle Fortune triple triumph gave

And when she fled, her lord.

The burden laid

Of thine impending fate, thou partest free

To muse upon the happy days of yore.

Hope now has fled; but in the fleeting past

How wast thou great! Seek thou the wars no more,

And call the gods to witness that for thee

Henceforth no man shall die. The fights to come

On Afric's mournful shore, by Pharos' stream

And fateful Munda, and the final scene

Of dire Pharsalia 's battle are not thine.

Thy name no more shall stir the world to war,

But those great rivals biding with us yet,

Caesar and Liberty; and not for thee

When thou hadst fled the field, but for itself

The dying Senate still upheld the fight.

Find'st thou not solace thus to quit the field

Nor witness all the horrors of its close?

Look back upon the crimsoned ranks of war,

The rivers turbid with ensanguined stream;

Then pity thou thy kinsman. How shall he

Enter the city, who on such a field

Finds happiness? Whate'er in lands unknown

Thine exiled lot, whate'er the Pharian king

May place upon thee, trust thou in the gods;

Trust the long story of the favouring fates:

'Twere worse to conquer. Then forbid the tear,

The nation's grief, the weeping of mankind,

And let the world adore thee in defeat

As in thy triumphs. With unaltered gaze

Look down upon the kings, thy subjects still;

Look on the realms and cities which they hold,

Egypt and Libya, gifts from thee of yore;

And choose the country that befits thy death.

Larissa first was witness of thy fall,

Thy noble mien, as victor of the fates;

And loud in sorrow, yet with gifts of price

Fit for a conqueror flung back her gates

And poured her citizens forth. ' Our homes and fanes

To thee are open; would it were our lot

With thee to perish; of thy mighty name

Still much survives and conquered by thyself,

Thyself alone, still couldst thou to the war

All nations call and challenge fate again.'

But thus he spake: 'To cities nor to men

Avails the conquered aught: then pledge your faith

To him who has the victory.' Caesar still

Trod deep in piles of slaughter on the field,

His country's vitals, while his daughter's spouse

Thus gave him kingdoms. But Pompeius fled

'Mid sobs and groans and blaming of the gods

For this their fierce commandment; and he fled

Full of the fruits and knowledge of the love

The peoples bore him, which he knew not his

In times of happiness.

When Italian blood

Flowed deep enough upon the fatal field,

Caesar gave mercy to the meaner crowd

Whose deaths were vain. But that the hostile camp

Might not recall the foe, nor calm of night

Banish their fears, he bids his cohorts dash,

While Fortune glowed and terror filled the plain,

Straight on the ramparts of the conquered foe.

Light was the task to urge them to the spoil

Though worn by battle, wearied with the fray:

Soldiers,' he said, ' the victory is ours,

Full and triumphant: there doth lie the prize

Which you have won, not Caesar; at your feet

Behold the booty of the hostile camp.

Snatched from Hesperian nations ruddy gold,

And all the riches of the Orient world,

Are piled within the tents. The wealth of kings

And of Pompeius here awaits its lords.

Haste, soldiers, and outstrip the flying foe;

E'en now the vanquished of Pharsalia 's field

Anticipate your spoils.' No more he said,

But drave them, blind with frenzy for the gold,

To spurn the bodies of their fallen sires,

And trample chiefs in dashing on their prey.

What rampart had restrained them as they rushed

To seize the prize for wickedness and war

And learn the price of guilt? And though they found

In ponderous masses heaped for need of war

The trophies of a world, yet were their minds

Unsatisfied, that asked for all. Whate'er

Iberian mines or Tagus bring to day,

Or Arimaspians from golden sands

May gather, had they seized; still they had thought

Their guilt too cheaply sold. When pledged to them

Was the Tarpeian rock, for victory won,

And all the spoils of Rome, by Caesar's word,

Shall camps suffice them? Then plebeian limbs

On senators' turf took rest, on kingly couch

The soldier wretch; and there the murderer lay

Where yesternight his brother or his sire.

In maddened dreams the fury of the fight

Still raged, and in their sleep the guilty hand

Still wrought its deed, of blood, and restless gripped

The phantom sword-hilt. Thou hadst said that groans

Issued from all the plain, that parted souls

Had breathed a life into the guilty soil,

That earthly darkness teemed with gibbering ghosts

And Stygian terrors. Victory foully won

Thus claimed its punishment. The slumbering sense

Already heard the hiss of vengeful flames:

There troop the ghostly slain: a slaughtered sire

Tortures the breast of one; a brother's shape

There haunts his murderer's couch: each sees the form

Of him whose life he took. But all the dead

In Caesar's dreams were visioned. In such guise

Orestes saw the Furies, ere he fled

To purge his sin within the Scythian bounds;

Such fierce convulsions raged within the soul

Of Pentheus mad; and in Agave's mind

When she had known her son. Before his gaze

Flashed all the javelins which Pharsalia saw,

Or that avenging day when drew their blades

The Roman senators; and monstrous shapes

Scourged all his frame. 'Tis thus the wretch shall find

In guilty conscience punishment most dire:

He saw the Styx before his rival died:

And goblin horrors from the depths of Hell

Thronged on his sleep.

Yet when the radiant sun

Unveiled the butchery of Pharsalia 's field

He shrank not from its horror, nor withdrew

His feasting gaze. There rolled the streams in flood

With crimson carnage; there a seething heap

Rose shrouding all the plain, now in decay

Slow settling down; there numbered he the host

Of Magnus slain; and for the morn's repast

That spot he chose whence he might watch the dead,

And feast his eyes upon Emathia 's field

Concealed by corpses; of the bloody sight

Insatiate, he forbad the funeral pyre,

And cast Emathia in the face of heaven.

Nor by the Punic victor was he taught,

Who at the close of Cannae 's fatal fight

Laid in the earth the Roman consul dead,

To find fit burial for his fallen foes;

For these were all his countrymen, nor yet

His ire by blood appeased. Yet ask we not

For separate pyres or sepulchres apart

Wherein to lay the ashes of the fallen:

Burn in one holocaust the nations slain;

Or should it please thy soul to torture more

Thy kinsman, pile on high from OEta's slopes

And Pindus' top the woods: thus shall he see

While fugitive on the deep the blaze that marks

Thessalian bounds. Yet by this idle rage

Nought dost thou profit; for these corporal frames

Bearing innate from birth the certain germs

Of dissolution, whether by decay

Or fire consumed, shall fall into the lap

Of all-embracing nature. Thus if now

Thou shouldst deny the pyre, still in that flame

When all shall crumble, earth and rolling seas

And stars commingled with the bones of men,

These too shall perish. Where thy soul shall go

These shall companion thee; no higher flight

In airy realms is thine, nor smoother couch

Beneath the Stygian darkness; for the dead

No fortune favours, and our Mother Earth

All that is born from her receives again,

And he whose bones no tomb or urn protects

Yet sleeps beneath the canopy of heaven.

And thou, proud conqueror, who wouldst deny

The rites of burial to thousands slain,

Why flee thy field of triumph? Why desert

This reeking plain? Drink, Caesar, if thou canst

Of these ensanguined streams, and breathe the air

Of cursed Thessalia: but from thy grasp

The earth is ravished, and th' unburied host,

Routing their victor, hold Pharsalia's field.

Then to the ghastly harvest of the war

Came all the beasts of earth whose facile sense

Of odour tracks the bodies of the slain.

Sped from his northern home the Thracian wolf;

Bears left their dens and lions from afar

Scenting the carnage; dogs obscene and foul

Their homes deserted: all the air was full

Of gathering fowl, who in their flight had long

Pursued the armies. Cranes who yearly change

The frosts of Thracia for the banks of Nile,

This year delayed their voyage. As ne'er before

The air grew dark with vultures' hovering wings,

Innumerable, for every grove and wood

Sent forth its denizens; on every tree

Dripped from their crimsoned beaks a gory dew.

Oft on the conquerors and their impious arms

Or purple rain of blood, or mouldering flesh

Fell from the lofty heaven; or limbs of men

From weary talons dropped. Yet even so

The peoples passed not all into the maw

Of ravening beast or fowl; the inmost flesh

Scarce did they touch, nor limbs-thus lay the dead

Scorned by the spoiler; and the Roman host

By sun and length of days, and rain from heaven,

At length was mingled with Emathia 's plain.

Ill-starred Thessalia! By what hateful crime

Didst thou offend that thus on thee alone

Was laid such carnage? By what length of years

Shalt thou be cleansed from the curse of war?

When shall the harvest of thy fields arise

Free from their purple stain? And when the share

Cease to upturn the slaughtered hosts of Rome?

First shall the battle onset sound again,

Again shall flow upon thy fated earth

A crimson torrent. Thus may be o'erthrown

Our sires' memorials; those erected last,

Or those which pierced by ancient roots have spread

Through broken stones their sacred urns abroad.

Thus shall the ploughman of Haemonia gaze

On more abundant ashes, and the rake

Pass o'er more frequent bones. Wert, Thracia, thou,

Our only battlefield, no sailor's hand

Upon thy shore should make his cable fast;

No spade should turn, the husbandman should flee

Thy fields, the resting-place of Roman dead;

No lowing kine should graze, nor shepherd dare

To leave his fleecy charge to browse at will

On fields made fertile by our mouldering dust;

All bare and unexplored thy soil should lie,

As past man's footsteps, parched by cruel suns,

Or palled by snows unmelting! But, ye gods,

Give us to hate the lands which bear the guilt;

Let not all earth be cursed, though not all

Be blameless found.

'Twas thus that Munda's fight

And blood of Mutina, and Leucas ' cape,

And sad Pachynus, made Philippi pure.