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.)
BOOK V
THE ORACLE. THE MUTINY. THE STORM
Thus had the smiles of Fortune and her frowns Brought either chief to Macedonian shores Still equal to his foe. From cooler skies Sank Atlas’ (1) daughters down, and Haemus’ slopes Were white with winter, and the day drew nigh Devoted to the god who leads the months, And marking with new names the book of Rome, When came the Fathers from their distant posts By both the Consuls to Epirus called (2) Ere yet the year was dead: a foreign land Obscure received the magistrates of Rome, And heard their high debate. No warlike camp This; for the Consul’s and the Praetor’s axe Proclaimed the Senate-house; and Magnus sat One among many, and the state was all.
When all were silent, from his lofty seat Thus Lentulus began, while stern and sad The Fathers listened: “If your hearts still beat With Latian blood, and if within your breasts Still lives your fathers’ vigour, look not now On this strange land that holds us, nor enquire Your distance from the captured city: yours This proud assembly, yours the high command In all that comes. Be this your first decree, Whose truth all peoples and all kings confess; Be this the Senate. Let the frozen wain
Demand your presence, or the torrid zone Wherein the day and night with equal tread For ever march; still follows in your steps The central power of Imperial Rome.
When flamed the Capitol with fires of Gaul When Veii held Camillus, there with him
Was Rome, nor ever though it changed its clime Your order lost its rights. In Caesar’s hands Are sorrowing houses and deserted homes, Laws silent for a space, and forums closed In public fast. His Senate-house beholds Those Fathers only whom from Rome it drove, While Rome was full. Of that high order all Not here, are exiles. (3) Ignorant of war, Its crimes and bloodshed, through long years of peace, Ye fled its outburst: now in session all Are here assembled. See ye how the gods
Weigh down Italia’s loss by all the world Thrown in the other scale? Illyria’s wave Rolls deep upon our foes: in Libyan wastes Is 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 now As, when ye fled, your cause. The Consuls’ power Fails with the dying year: not so does yours; By your commandment for the common weal
Decree Pompeius leader.” With applause They 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 kings Honours well earned — Rhodes, Mistress of the Seas, Was decked with gifts; Athena, old in fame, Received her praise, and the rude tribes who dwell On cold Taygetus; Massilia’s sons
Their own Phocaea’s freedom; on the chiefs Of Thracian tribes, fit honours were bestowed. They order Libya by their high decree
To serve King Juba’s sceptre; and, alas! On Ptolemaeus, of a faithless race
The faithless sovereign, scandal to the gods, And shame to Fortune, placed the diadem
Of Pella. Boy! thy sword was only sharp Against 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 fate Devised their counsel, Appius (6) alone
Feared for the chances of the war, and sought Through Phoebus’ ancient oracle to break The silence of the gods and know the end.
Between the western belt and that which bounds (7) The furthest east, midway Parnassus rears His double summit: to the Bromian god
And Paean consecrate, to whom conjoined The Theban band leads up the Delphic feast On each third year. This mountain, when the sea Poured 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 home Chased by the angered goddess while as yet She 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 cave A godlike knowledge breathed, and all the air Was full of voices murmured from the depths, He took the shrine and filled the deep recess; Henceforth to prophesy.
Which of the gods
Has left heaven’s light in this dark cave to hide? What spirit that knows the secrets of the world And 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 Jove Sent here to rule the earth with mystic power, Balanced upon the void immense of air,
Sounds through the caves, and in its flight returns To that high home of thunder whence it came. Caught in a virgin’s breast, this deity
Strikes on the human spirit: then a voice Sounds from her breast, as when the lofty peak Of Etna boils, forced by compelling flames, Or as Typheus on Campania’s shore
Frets ‘neath the pile of huge Inarime. (9)
Though free to all that ask, denied to none, No human passion lurks within the voice
That 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 homes To seek another, it hath turned their steps Aright, as with the Tyrians; (10) and raised The hearts of nations to confront their foe, As prove the waves of Salamis: (11) when earth Hath been unfruitful, or polluted air
Has plagued mankind, this utterance benign Hath raised their hopes and pointed to the end. No gift from heaven’s high gods so great as this Our centuries have lost, since Delphi’s shrine Has silent stood, and kings forbade the gods (12) To speak the future, fearing for their fates. Nor does the priestess sorrow that the voice Is heard no longer; and the silent fane
To her is happiness; for whatever breast Contains the deity, its shattered frame
Surges with frenzy, and the soul divine Shakes the frail breath that with the god receives, As prize or punishment, untimely death.
These tripods Appius seeks, unmoved for years These soundless caverned rocks, in quest to learn Hesperia’s destinies. At his command
To loose the sacred gateways and permit The prophetess to enter to the god,
The keeper calls Phemonoe; (13) whose steps Round the Castalian fount and in the grove Were wandering careless; her he bids to pass The portals. But the priestess feared to tread The awful threshold, and with vain deceits Sought to dissuade the chieftain from his zeal To learn the future. “What this hope,” she cried, “Roman, that moves thy breast to know the fates? Long has Parnassus and its silent cleft
Stifled the god; perhaps the breath divine Has left its ancient gorge and thro’ the world Wanders in devious paths; or else the fane, Consumed to ashes by barbarian (14) fire, Closed up the deep recess and choked the path Of Phoebus; or the ancient Sibyl’s books Disclosed enough of fate, and thus the gods Decreed to close the oracle; or else
Since wicked steps are banished from the fane, In this our impious age the god finds none Whom he may answer.” But the maiden’s guile Was known, for though she would deny the gods Her fears approved them. On her front she binds A twisted fillet, while a shining wreath Of Phocian laurels crowns the locks that flow Upon her shoulders. Hesitating yet
The priest compelled her, and she passed within. But horror filled her of the holiest depths From which the mystic oracle proceeds;
And resting near the doors, in breast unmoved She dares invent the god in words confused, Which proved no mind possessed with fire divine; By such false chant less injuring the chief Than faith in Phoebus and the sacred fane. No burst of words with tremor in their tones, No voice re-echoing through the spacious vault Proclaimed the deity, no bristling locks Shook off the laurel chaplet; but the grove Unshaken, and the summits of the shrine, Gave proof she shunned the god. The Roman knew The tripods yet were idle, and in rage,
“Wretch,” he exclaimed, “to us and to the gods, Whose presence thou pretendest, thou shalt pay For this thy fraud the punishment; unless Thou 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 came Into her unaccustomed breast the god,
Breathed from the living rock for centuries Untouched; nor ever with a mightier power Did Paean’s inspiration seize the frame
Of Delphic priestess; his pervading touch Drove out her former mind, expelled the man, And made her wholly his. In maddened trance She whirls throughout the cave, her locks erect With horror, and the fillets of the god
Dashed to the ground; her steps unguided turn To this side and to that; the tripods fall O’erturned; within her seethes the mighty fire Of angry Phoebus; nor with whip alone
He urged her onwards, but with curb restrained; Nor was it given her by the god to speak All that she knew; for into one vast mass (15) All time was gathered, and her panting chest Groaned ‘neath the centuries. In order long All things lay bare: the future yet unveiled Struggled 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 day The prophetess upon the Cuman shore, (16) Disdaining that her frenzy should be slave To other nations, from the boundless threads Chose out with pride of hand the fates of Rome. E’en so Phemonoe, for a time oppressed
With fates unnumbered, laboured ere she found, Beneath such mighty destinies concealed, Thine, Appius, who alone had’st sought the god In land Castalian; then from foaming lips First rushed the madness forth, and murmurs loud Uttered with panting breath and blent with groans; Till through the spacious vault a voice at length Broke from the virgin conquered by the god: “From this great struggle thou, O Roman, free Escap’st the threats of war: alive, in peace, Thou shalt possess the hollow in the coast Of vast Euboea.” Thus she spake, no more.
Ye mystic tripods, guardians of the fates And Paean, thou, from whom no day is hid By 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 doom Of her great Empire tottering to its fall, And all the bloodshed of that western land? Were yet the stars in doubt on Magnus’ fate Not yet decreed, and did the gods yet shrink From that, the greatest crime? Or wert thou dumb That Fortune’s sword for civil strife might wreak Just vengeance, and a Brutus’ arm once more Strike down the tyrant?
From the temple doors
Rushed 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 rage Gaze on the wide expanse: still works her face Convulsive; on her cheeks a crimson blush With ghastly pallor blent, though not of fear. Her weary heart throbs ever; and as seas Boom swollen by northern winds, she finds in sighs, All inarticulate, relief. But while
She hastes from that dread light in which she saw The fates, to common day, lo! on her path The darkness fell. Then by a Stygian draught Of the forgetful river, Phoebus snatched Back from her soul his secrets; and she fell Yet hardly living.
Nor did Appius dread
Approaching death, but by dark oracles Baffled, while yet the Empire of the world Hung in the balance, sought his promised realm In Chalcis of Euboea. Yet to escape
All ills of earth, the crash of war — what god Can give thee such a boon, but death alone? Far on the solitary shore a grave
Awaits thee, where Carystos’ marble crags (17) Draw in the passage of the sea, and where The fane of Rhamnus rises to the gods
Who hate the proud, and where the ocean strait Boils in swift whirlpools, and Euripus draws Deceitful in his tides, a bane to ships, Chalcidian vessels to bleak Aulis’ shore.
But Caesar carried from the conquered west His eagles to another world of war;
When envying his victorious course the gods Almost turned back the prosperous tide of fate. Not on the battle-field borne down by arms But in his tents, within the rampart lines, The hoped-for prize of this unholy war
Seemed 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 call
Scarce ever silent; or replete with blood, Well nigh betrayed their general and sold For hope of gain their honour and their cause. No other perilous shock gave surer proof How trembled ‘neath his feet the dizzy height From which great Caesar looked. A moment since His high behest drew nations to the field: Now, maimed of all, he sees that swords once drawn Are 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 wrongs Wrought by the despot. In so great a host Dread found no place. Where thousands share the guilt Crime goes unpunished. Thus from dauntless throats They hurled their menace: “Caesar, give us leave To quit thy crimes; thou seek’st by land and sea The sword to slay us; let the fields of Gaul And far Iberia, and the world proclaim
How for thy victories our comrades fell. What boots it us that by an army’s blood The Rhine and Rhone and all the northern lands Thou hast subdued? Thou giv’st us civil war For all these battles; such the prize. When fled The Senate trembling, and when Rome was ours What homes or temples did we spoil? Our hands Reek with offence! Aye, but our poverty
Proclaims our innocence! What end shall be Of arms and armies? What shall be enough If Rome suffice not? and what lies beyond? Behold these silvered locks, these nerveless hands And shrunken arms, once stalwart! In thy wars Gone is the strength of life, gone all its pride! Dismiss thine aged soldiers to their deaths. How shameless is our prayer! Not on hard turf To 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 think We only know not what degree of crime
Will fetch the highest price? What thou canst dare These years have proved, or nothing; law divine Nor human ordinance shall hold thine hand. Thou wert our leader on the banks of Rhine; Henceforth our equal; for the stain of crime Makes all men like to like. Add that we serve A thankless chief: as fortune’s gift he takes The fruits of victory our arms have won. We are his fortunes, and his fates are ours To fashion as we will. Boast that the gods Shall do thy bidding! Nay, thy soldiers’ will Shall close the war.” With threatening mien and speech Thus through the camp the troops demand their chief.
When faith and loyalty are fled, and hope For aught but evil, thus may civil war
In 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’erjoyed To front their anger raging at its height Unflinching comes. No temples of the gods, Not Jove’s high fane on the Tarpeian rock, Not Rome’s high dames nor maidens had he grudged To their most savage lust: that they should ask The worst, his wish, and love the spoils of war. Nor feared he aught save order at the hands Of that unconquered host. Art thou not shamed That strife should please thee only, now condemned Even by thy minions? Shall they shrink from blood, They from the sword recoil? and thou rush on Heedless of guilt, through right and through unright, Nor learn that men may lay their arms aside Yet bear to live? This civil butchery
Escapes thy grasp. Stay thou thy crimes at length; Nor force thy will on those who will no more.
Upon a turfy mound unmoved he stood
And, 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 now Against 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 deed
Betrays your coward souls, betrays the youth Who tires of victories which gild the arms Of 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 fleet Draw nations in his train; and not to me as My victories bring hosts, to whom shall fall The prize of war accomplished, who shall reap Your laurels scorned, and scathless join the train That 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 sea
Were to withdraw their waters, it would fail By not one inch, no more than by their flow It rises now. Have then your efforts given Strength to my cause? Not so: the heavenly gods Stoop not so low; fate has no time to judge Your lives and deaths. The fortunes of the world Follow heroic souls: for the fit few
The many live; and you who terrified With me the northern and Iberian worlds, Would flee when led by Magnus. Strong in arms For Caesar’s cause was Labienus; (20) now That vile deserter, with his chief preferred, Wanders o’er land and sea. Nor were your faith One whit more firm to me if, neither side Espoused, you ceased from arms. Who leaves me once, Though not to fight against me with the foe, Joins not my ranks again. Surely the gods Smile on these arms who for so great a war Grant me fresh soldiers. From what heavy load Fortune relieves me! for the hands which aimed At all, to which the world did not suffice, I now disarm, and for myself alone
Reserve 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 neck And take th’ avenging blow. And thou whose strength Shall 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 host Drew back and trembled at the voice of him They would depose, as though their very swords Would from their scabbards leap at his command Themselves unwilling; but he only feared Lest hand and blade to satisfy the doom
Might be denied, till they submitting pledged Their lives and swords alike, beyond his hope. To strike and suffer (22) holds in surest thrall The heart inured to guilt; and Caesar kept, By dreadful compact ratified in blood,
Those whom he feared to lose.
He bids them march
Upon Brundusium, and recalls the ships From soft Calabria’s inlets and the point Of Leucas, and the Salapinian marsh,
Where sheltered Sipus nestles at the feet Of rich Garganus, jutting from the shore In huge escarpment that divides the waves Of Hadria; on each hand, his seaward slopes Buffeted by the winds; or Auster borne
From sweet Apulia, or the sterner blast Of 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 now Lie to our masters, men found out the use: For to preserve his right to wield the sword He mixed the civil axes with his brands; With eagles, fasces; with an empty word
Clothing his power; and stamped upon the time A worthy designation; for what name
Could better mark the dread Pharsalian year Than “Caesar, Consul”? (23) Now the famous field Pretends its ancient ceremonies: calls
The tribes in order and divides the votes In 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 birds Propitious sworn. Then was the ancient name Degraded first; and monthly Consuls, (24) Shorn of their rank, are chosen to mark the years. And Trojan Alba’s (25) god (since Latium’s fall Deserving not) beheld the wonted fires
Blaze from his altars on the festal night.
Then through Apulia’s fallows, that her hinds Left all untilled, to sluggish weeds a prey Passed Caesar onward, swifter than the fire Of heaven, or tigress dam: until he reached Brundusium’s winding ramparts, built of old By Cretan colonists. There icy winds
Constrained the billows, and his trembling fleet Feared for the winter storms nor dared the main. But Caesar’s soul burned at the moments lost For speedy battle, nor could brook delay Within the port, indignant that the sea
Should give safe passage to his routed foe: And thus he stirred his troops, in seas unskilled, With words of courage: “When the winter wind Has seized on sky and ocean, firm its hold; But the inconstancy of cloudy spring
Permits no certain breezes to prevail Upon the billows. Straight shall be our course. No winding nooks of coast, but open seas Struck by the northern wind alone we plough, And may he bend the spars, and bear us swift To Grecian cities; else Pompeius’ oars,
Smiting the billows from Phaeacian (26) coasts, May catch our flagging sails. Cast loose the ropes From our victorious prows. Too long we waste Tempests that blow to bear us to our goal.”
Now sank the sun to rest; the evening star Shone on the darkening heaven, and the moon Reigned with her paler light, when all the fleet Freed 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 waves Were still as deepest pool, where never wind Ripples the surface. Thus in Scythian climes Cimmerian Bosphorus restrains the deep
Bound fast in frosty fetters; Ister’s streams (27) No more impel the main, and ships constrained Stand fast in ice; and while in depths below The waves still murmur, loud the charger’s hoof Sounds on the surface, and the travelling wheel Furrows a track upon the frozen marsh.
Cruel as tempest was the calm that lay In stagnant pools upon the mournful deep: Against the course of nature lay outstretched A rigid ocean: ’twas as if the sea
Forgat its ancient ways and knew no more The ceaseless tides, nor any breeze of heaven, Nor quivered at the image of the sun,
Mirrored upon its wave. For while the fleet Hung in mid passage motionless, the foe
Might hurry to attack, with sturdy stroke Churning the deep; or famine’s deadly grip Might seize the ships becalmed. For dangers new New vows they find. “May mighty winds arise And rouse the ocean, and this sluggish plain Cast 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 arose
And stirred the depths, and moved the fleet along Towards the Ceraunian headland; and the waves And 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 camps Confronted, which the streams of Apsus bound And swifter Genusus; a lengthy course
Is run by neither, but on Apsus’ waves Scarce flowing from a marsh, the frequent boat Finds room to swim; while on the foamy bed Of Genusus by sun or shower compelled
The melted snows pour seawards. Here were met (So Fortune ordered it) the mighty pair; And in its woes the world yet vainly hoped That brought to nearer touch their crime itself Might bleed abhorrence: for from either camp Voices were clearly heard and features seen. Nor e’er, Pompeius, since that distant day When Caesar’s daughter and thy spouse was reft By 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 fight Was forced to pause until Antonius brought The rearward troops; Antonius even now
Rehearsing Leucas’ fight. With prayers and threats Caesar exhorts him. “Why delay the fates, Thou cause of evil to the suffering world? My speed hath won the major part: from thee Fortune demands the final stroke alone.
Do Libyan whirlpools with deceitful tides Uncertain separate us? Is the deep
Untried to which I call? To unknown risks Art thou commanded? Caesar bids thee come, Thou sluggard, not to leave him. Long ago I ran my ships midway through sands and shoals To harbours held by foes; and dost thou fear My friendly camp? I mourn the waste of days Which fate allotted us. Upon the waves
And winds I call unceasing: hold not back Thy willing troops, but let them dare the sea; Here gladly shall they come to join my camp, Though risking shipwreck. Not in equal shares The world has fallen between us: thou alone Dost hold Italia, but Epirus I
And all the lords of Rome.” Twice called and thrice Antonius lingered still: but Caesar thought To reap in full the favour of the gods,
Not sit supine; and knowing danger yields To whom heaven favours, he upon the waves Feared by Antonius’ fleets, in shallow boat Embarked, 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 watch When mighty Caesar, in the silence vast
With 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 guard
Stretched in repose he leaps, in secret wrath At such a sleep. Pacing the winding beach, Fast to a sea-worn rock he finds a boat
On ocean’s marge afloat. Hard by on shore Its master dwelt within his humble home. No solid front it reared, for sterile rush And marshy reed enwoven formed the walls, Propped by a shallop with its bending sides Turned upwards. Caesar’s hand upon the door Knocks twice and thrice until the fabric shook. Amyclas from his couch of soft seaweed
Arising, calls: “What shipwrecked sailor seeks My humble home? Who hopes for aid from me, By fates adverse compelled?” He stirs the heap Upon the hearth, until a tiny spark
Glows in the darkness, and throws wide the door. Careless of war, he knew that civil strife Stoops not to cottages. Oh! happy life
That poverty affords! great gift of heaven Too little understood! what mansion wall, What temple of the gods, would feel no fear When Caesar called for entrance? Then the chief: “Enlarge thine hopes and look for better things. Do but my bidding, and on yonder shore
Place me, and thou shalt cease from one poor boat To earn thy living; and in years to come Look for a rich old age: and trust thy fates To those high gods whose wont it is to bless The poor with sudden plenty.” So he spake E’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 clouds
Or peaceful rays to rest; part of his beams Presaged a southern gale, the rest proclaimed A northern tempest; and his middle orb,
Shorn of its strength, permitted human eyes To gaze upon his grandeur; and the moon
Rose not with silver horns upon the night Nor pure in middle space; her slender points Not drawn aright, but blushing with the track Of raging tempests, till her lurid light Was sadly veiled within the clouds. Again The forest sounds; the surf upon the shore; The dolphin’s mood, uncertain where to play; The sea-mew on the land; the heron used
To wade among the shallows, borne aloft And 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 else Storm 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 fall In 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 come Is still uncertain, for as yet confused
The billows tumble. Judged by clouds and sky A western tempest: by the murmuring deep A wild south-eastern gale shall sweep the sea. Nor bark nor man shall reach Hesperia’s shore In this wild rage of waters. To return
Back on our course forbidden by the gods, Is our one refuge, and with labouring boat To reach the shore ere yet the nearest land Way be too distant.”
But great Caesar’s trust Was 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 thee One cause of terror just — thou dost not know Thy 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 us But on the sky and ocean; and our bark
Shall swim the billows safe in him it bears. Nor shall the wind rage long: the boat itself Shall calm the waters. Flee the nearest shore, Steer for the ocean with unswerving hand: Then in the deep, when to our ship and us No other port is given, believe thou hast Calabria’s harbours. And dost thou not know The purpose of such havoc? Fortune seeks In all this tumult of the sea and sky
A boon for Caesar.” Then a hurricane Swooped on the boat and tore away the sheet: The fluttering sail fell on the fragile mast: And groaned the joints. From all the universe Commingled perils rush. In Atlas’ seas
First Corus (30) lifts his head, and stirs the depths To fury, and had forced upon the rocks
Whole seas and oceans; but the chilly north Drove back the deep that doubted which was lord. But Scythian Aquilo prevailed, whose blast Tossed up the main and showed as shallow pools Each deep abyss; and yet was not the sea Heaped on the crags, for Corus’ billows met The waves of Boreas: such seas had clashed Even were the winds withdrawn; Eurus enraged Burst from the cave, and Notus black with rain, And all the winds from every part of heaven Strove for their own; and thus the ocean stayed Within his boundaries. No petty seas
Rapt in the storm are whirled. The Tuscan deep Invades th’ Aegean; in Ionian gulfs
Sounds wandering Hadria. How long the crags Which that day fell, the Ocean’s blows had braved! What lofty peaks did vanquished earth resign! And yet on yonder coast such mighty waves Took not their rise; from distant regions came Those monster billows, driven on their course By that great current which surrounds the world. (31) Thus did the King of Heaven, when length of years Wore out the forces of his thunder, call His brother’s trident to his help, what time The earth and sea one second kingdom formed And ocean knew no limit but the sky.
Now, too, the sea had risen to the stars In mighty mass, had not Olympus’ chief
Pressed down its waves with clouds: came not from heaven That night, as others; but the murky air Was dim with pallor of the realms below; (32) The sky lay on the deep; within the clouds The waves received the rain: the lightning flash Clove through the parted air a path obscured By mist and darkness: and the heavenly vaults Re-echoed to the tumult, and the frame
That holds the sky was shaken. Nature feared Chaos returned, as though the elements
Had burst their bonds, and night had come to mix Th’ infernal shades with heaven.
In such turmoil
Not to have perished was their only hope. Far as from Leucas point the placid main Spreads to the horizon, from the billow’s crest They viewed the dashing of th’ infuriate sea; Thence sinking to the middle trough, their mast Scarce 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 yield Or where to meet the wave: but safety came From ocean’s self at war: one billow forced The vessel under, but a huger wave
Repelled it upwards, and she rode the storm Through every blast triumphant. Not the shore Of humble Sason (33), nor Thessalia’s coast Indented, not Ambracia’s scanty ports
Dismay the sailors, but the giddy tops Of 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 fall Is due, and not to war, intrepid still
Whatever death they send shall strike me down. Let fate cut short the deeds that I would do And 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 voice Gave at my order what the wars denied.
And all the titles which denote the powers Known 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, died
Ere his last prize was won. I ask no pomp Of pyre or funeral; let my body lie
Mangled beneath the waves: I leave a name That men shall dread in ages yet to come And all the earth shall honour.” Thus he spake, When lo! a tenth gigantic billow raised
The feeble keel, and where between the rocks A cleft gave safety, placed it on the shore. Thus in a moment fortune, kingdoms, lands, Once more were Caesar’s.
But on his return
When daylight came, he entered not the camp Silent as when he parted; for his friends Soon pressed around him, and with weeping eyes In accents welcome to his ears began:
“Whither in reckless daring hast thou gone, Unpitying Caesar? Were these humble lives Left here unguarded while thy limbs were given, Unsought for, to be scattered by the storm? When on thy breath so many nations hang
For life and safety, and so great a world Calls thee its master, to have courted death Proves want of heart. Was none of all thy friends Deserving held to join his fate with thine? When thou wast tossed upon the raging deep We lay in slumber! Shame upon such sleep! And why thyself didst seek Italia’s shores? ‘Twere cruel (such thy thought) to speak the word That 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 attempt The raging ocean? With incessant prayers Why weary heaven? is it indeed enough
To crown the war, that Fortune and the deep Have cast thee on our shores? And would’st thou use The grace of favouring deities, to gain
Not lordship, not the empire of the world, But lucky shipwreck!” Night dispersed, and soon The sun beamed on them, and the wearied deep, The winds permitting, lulled its waves to rest. And when Antonius saw a breeze arise
Fresh from a cloudless heaven, to break the sea, He loosed his ships which, by the pilots’ hands And by the wind in equal order held,
Swept as a marching host across the main. But night unfriendly from the seamen snatched All governance of sail, parting the ships In divers paths asunder. Like as cranes
Deserting frozen Strymon for the streams Of Nile, when winter falls, in casual lines Of wedge-like figures (34) first ascend the sky; But when in loftier heaven the southern breeze Strikes on their pinions tense, in loose array Dispersed at large, in flight irregular, They wing their journey onwards. Stronger winds With 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.
When Magnus knew
That Caesar’s troops were gathered in their strength And that the war for quick decision called Before his camp, Cornelia he resolved
To send to Lesbos’ shore, from rage of fight Safe and apart: so lifting from his soul The weight that burdened it. Thus, lawful Love. Thus art thou tyrant o’er the mightiest mind! His spouse was the one cause why Magnus stayed Nor met his fortunes, though he staked the world And all the destinies of Rome. The word
He speaks not though resolved; so sweet it seemed, When on the future pondering, to gain
A pause from Fate! But at the close of night, When drowsy sleep had fled, Cornelia sought To soothe the anxious bosom of her lord
And win his kisses. Then amazed she saw His cheek was tearful, and with boding soul She shrank instinctive from the hidden wound, Nor dared to rouse him weeping. But he spake: “Dearer to me than life itself, when life Is happy (not at moments such as these); The day of sorrow comes, too long delayed, Nor long enough! With Caesar at our gates With all his forces, a secure retreat
Shall Lesbos give thee. Try me not with prayers. This fatal boon I have denied myself.
Thou wilt not long be absent from thy lord. Disasters hasten, and things highest fall With speediest ruin. ‘Tis enough for thee To hear of Magnus’ peril; and thy love (35) Deceives thee with the thought that thou canst gaze Unmoved on civil strife. It shames my soul On the eve of war to slumber at thy side, And rise from thy dear breast when trumpets call A woeful world to misery and arms.
I fear in civil war to feel no loss To Magnus. Meantime safer than a king
Lie hid, nor let the fortune of thy lord Whelm thee with all its weight. If unkind heaven Our armies rout, still let my choicest part Survive in thee; if fated is my flight,
Still leave me that whereto I fain would flee.”
Hardly at first her senses grasped the words In their full misery; then her mind amazed Could scarce find utterance for the grief that pressed. “Nought, Magnus, now is left wherewith to upbraid The gods and fates of marriage; ’tis not death That parts our love, nor yet the funeral pyre, Nor that dread torch which marks the end of all. I share the ignoble lot of vulgar lives: My spouse rejects me. Yes, the foe is come! Break we our bonds and Julia’s sire appease! — Is this thy consort, Magnus, this thy faith In her fond loving heart? Can danger fright Her and not thee? Long since our mutual fates Hang by one chain; and dost thou bid me now The thunder-bolts of ruin to withstand
Without thee? Is it well that I should die Even while you pray for fortune? And suppose I flee from evil and with death self-sought Follow thy footsteps to the realms below — Am I to live till to that distant isle
Some tardy rumour of thy fall may come? Add that thou fain by use would’st give me strength To bear such sorrow and my doom. Forgive Thy wife confessing that she fears the power. And if my prayers shall bring the victory, The joyful tale shall come to me the last In that lone isle of rocks. When all are glad, My heart shall throb with anguish, and the sail Which brings the message I shall see with fear, Not safe e’en then: for Caesar in his flight Might seize me there, abandoned and alone To be his hostage. If thou place me there, The spouse of Magnus, shall not all the world Well know the secret Mitylene holds?
This my last prayer: if all is lost but flight, And thou shalt seek the ocean, to my shores Turn not thy keel, ill-fated one: for there, There will they seek thee.” Thus she spoke distraught, Leaped from the couch and rushed upon her fate; No stop nor stay: she clung not to his neck Nor threw her arms about him; both forego The last caress, the last fond pledge of love, And grief rushed in unchecked upon their souls; Still gazing as they part no final words Could either utter, and the sweet Farewell Remained unspoken. This the saddest day
Of all their lives: for other woes that came More gently struck on hearts inured to grief. Borne to the shore with failing limbs she fell And grasped the sands, embracing, till at last Her maidens placed her senseless in the ship.
Not in such grief she left her country’s shores When Caesar’s host drew near; for now she leaves, Though faithful to her lord, his side in flight And flees her spouse. All that next night she waked; Then first what means a widowed couch she knew, Its cold, its solitude. When slumber found Her eyelids, and forgetfulness her soul, Seeking with outstretched arms the form beloved, She grasps but air. Though tossed by restless love, She leaves a place beside her as for him Returning. Yet she feared Pompeius lost
To her for ever. But the gods ordained Worse than her fears, and in the hour of woe Gave her to look upon his face again.
ENDNOTES:
(1) The Pleiades, said to be daughters of Atlas. (2) These were the Consuls for the expiring year, B.C. 49 — Caius Marcellus and L. Lentulus Crus. (3) That is to say, Caesar’s Senate at Rome could boast of those Senators only whom it had, before Pompeius’ flight, declared public enemies. But they were to be regarded as exiles, having lost their rights, rather than the Senators in Epirus, who were in full possession of theirs. (4) Dean Merivale says that probably Caesar’s Senate was not less numerous than his rival’s. Duruy says there were senators in Pompeius’ camp, out of a total of between 500 and 600. Mommsen says, “they were veritably emigrants. This Roman Coblentz presented a pitiful spectacle of the high pretensions and paltry performances of the grandees of Rome.” (Vol. iv., p. 397.) Almost all the Consulars were with Pompeius.
(5) By the will of Ptolemy Auletes, Cleopatra had been appointed joint sovereign of Egypt with her young brother. Lucan means that Caesar would have killed Pompeius if young Ptolemy had not done so. She lost her hare of the kingdom, and Caesar was clear of the crime.
(6) Appius was Proconsul, and in command of Achaia, for the Senate.
(7) See Book IV., 82.
(8) Themis, the goddess of law, was in possession of the Delphic oracle, previous to Apollo. (Aesch., “Eumenides”, line 2.) (9) The modern isle of Ischia, off the Bay of Naples. (10) The Tyrians consulted the oracle in consequence of the earthquakes which vexed their country (Book III., line 225), and were told to found colonies.
(11) See Herodotus, Book VII., 140-143. The reference is to the answer given by the oracle to the Athenians that their wooden walls would keep them safe; which Themistocles interpreted as meaning their fleet.
(12) Cicero, on the contrary, suggests that the reason why the oracles ceased was this, that men became less credulous. (“De Div.”, ii., 57) Lecky, “History of European Morals from Augustus to Charlemagne”, vol. i., p. 368. (13) This name is one of those given to the Cumaean Sibyl mentioned at line 210. She was said to have been the daughter of Apollo.
(14) Probably by the Gauls under Brennus, B.C. 279. (15) These lines form the Latin motto prefixed to Shelley’s poem, “The Demon of the World”.
(16) Referring to the visit of Aeneas to the Sibyl. (Virgil, “Aeneid”, vi., 70, &c.)
(17) Appius was seized with fever as soon as he reached the spot; and there he died and was buried, thus fulfilling the oracle.
(18) That is, Nemesis.
(19) Reading “galeam”, with Francken; not “glebam”. (20) Labienus left Caesar’s ranks after the Rubicon was crossed, and joined his rival. In his mouth Lucan puts the speech made at the oracle of Hammon in Book IX. He was slain at Munda, B.C. 45.
(21) That is, civilians; no longer soldiers. This one contemptuous expression is said to have shocked and abashed the army. (Tacitus, “Annals”, I., 42.) (22) Reading “tenet”, with Hosius and Francken; not “timet”, as Haskins. The prospect of inflicting punishment attracted, while the suffering of it subdued, the mutineers. (23) Caesar was named Dictator while at Massilia. Entering Rome, he held the office for eleven days only, but was elected Consul for the incoming year, B.C. 48, along with Servilius Isauricus. (Caesar, “De Bello Civili”, iii., 1; Merivale, chapter xvi.)
(24) In the time of the Empire, the degraded Consulship, preserved only as a name, was frequently transferred monthly, or even shorter, intervals from one favourite to another.
(25) Caesar performed the solemn rites of the great Latin festival on the Alban Mount during his Dictatorship. (Compare Book VII., line 471.)
(26) Dyrrhachium was founded by the Corcyreams, with whom the Homeric Phaeacians have been identified. (27) Apparently making the Danube discharge into the Sea of Azov. See Mr. Heitland’s Introduction, p. 53. (28) At the foot of the Acroceraunian range. (29) Caesar himself says nothing of this adventure. But it is mentioned by Dion, Appian and Plutarch (“Caesar”, 38). Dean Merivale thinks the story may have been invented to introduce the apophthegm used by Caesar to the sailor, “Fear nothing: you carry Caesar and his fortunes” (lines 662-665). Mommsen accepts the story, as of an attempt which was only abandoned because no mariner could be induced to undertake it. Lucan colours it with his wildest and most exaggerated hyperbole.
(30) See Book I., 463.
(31) The ocean current, which, according to Hecataeus, surrounded the world. But Herodotus of this theory says, “For my part I know of no river called Ocean, and I think that Homer or one of the earlier poets invented the name and introduced it into his poetry.” (Book II., 23, and Book IV., 36.) In “Oceanus” Aeschylus seems to have intended to personify the great surrounding stream. (“Prom. Vinc.”, lines 291, 308.) (32) Comp. VI., 615.
(33) Sason is a small island just off the Ceraunian rocks, the point of which is now called Cape Linguetta, and is nearly opposite to Brindisi.
(34) Compare “Paradise Lost”, VII., 425. (35) Reading “Teque tuus decepit amor”, as preferred by Hosius.
BOOK VI
THE FIGHT NEAR DYRRHACHIUM. SCAEVA’S EXPLOITS. THE WITCH OF THESSALIA
Now that the chiefs with minds intent on fight Had drawn their armies near upon the hills And all the gods beheld their chosen pair, Caesar, the Grecian towns despising, scorned To reap the glory of successful war
Save at his kinsman’s cost. In all his prayers He seeks that moment, fatal to the world, When shall be cast the die, to win or lose, And all his fortune hang upon the throw. Thrice he drew out his troops, his eagles thrice, Demanding battle; thus to increase the woe Of Latium, prompt as ever: but his foes, Proof against every art, refused to leave The rampart of their camp. Then marching swift By hidden path between the wooded fields He seeks, and hopes to seize, Dyrrhachium’s (1) fort; But Magnus, speeding by the ocean marge, First camped on Petra’s slopes, a rocky hill Thus by the natives named. From thence he keeps Watch o’er the fortress of Corinthian birth Which by its towers alone without a guard Was safe against a siege. No hand of man In ancient days built up her lofty wall, No hammer rang upon her massive stones:
Not all the works of war, nor Time himself Shall undermine her. Nature’s hand has raised Her adamantine rocks and hedged her in
With bulwarks girded by the foamy main: And but for one short bridge of narrow earth Dyrrhachium were an island. Steep and fierce, Dreaded of sailors, are the cliffs that bear Her walls; and tempests, howling from the west, Toss up the raging main upon the roofs;
And homes and temples tremble at the shock.
Thirsting for battle and with hopes inflamed Here Caesar hastes, with distant rampart lines Seeking unseen to coop his foe within,
Though spread in spacious camp upon the hills. With eagle eye he measures out the land
Meet to be compassed, nor content with turf Fit for a hasty mound, he bids his troops Tear from the quarries many a giant rock: And spoils the dwellings of the Greeks, and drags Their walls asunder for his own. Thus rose A mighty barrier which no ram could burst Nor any ponderous machine of war.
Mountains are cleft, and level through the hills The work of Caesar strides: wide yawns the moat, Forts show their towers rising on the heights, And in vast circle forests are enclosed
And groves and spacious lands, and beasts of prey, As in a line of toils. Pompeius lacked
Nor field nor forage in th’ encircled span Nor room to move his camp; nay, rivers rose Within, and ran their course and reached the sea; And Caesar wearied ere he saw the whole, And daylight failed him. Let the ancient tale Attribute to the labours of the gods
The walls of Ilium: let the fragile bricks Which compass in great Babylon, amaze
The fleeting Parthian. Here a larger space Than those great cities which Orontes swift And Tigris’ stream enclose, or that which boasts In Eastern climes, the lordly palaces
Fit for Assyria’s kings, is closed by walls Amid the haste and tumult of a war
Forced to completion. Yet this labour huge Was spent in vain. So many hands had joined Or Sestos with Abydos, or had tamed
With mighty mole the Hellespontine wave, Or Corinth from the realm of Pelops’ king Had rent asunder, or had spared each ship Her voyage round the long Malean cape,
Or had done anything most hard, to change The world’s created surface. Here the war Was prisoned: blood predestinate to flow In all the parts of earth; the host foredoomed To fall in Libya or in Thessaly
Was here: in such small amphitheatre The tide of civil passion rose and fell.
At first Pompeius knew not: so the hind Who peaceful tills the mid-Sicilian fields Hears not Pelorous (2) sounding to the storm; So billows thunder on Rutupian shores (3), Unheard by distant Caledonia’s tribes.
But when he saw the mighty barrier stretch O’er hill and valley, and enclose the land, He bade his columns leave their rocky hold And seize on posts of vantage in the plain; Thus forcing Caesar to extend his troops On wider lines; and holding for his own
Such space encompassed as divides from Rome Aricia, (4) sacred to that goddess chaste Of old Mycenae; or as Tiber holds
From Rome’s high ramparts to the Tuscan sea, Unless he deviate. No bugle call
Commands an onset, and the darts that fly Fly though forbidden; but the arm that flings For proof the lance, at random, here and there Deals impious slaughter. Weighty care compelled Each leader to withhold his troops from fight; For there the weary earth of produce failed Pressed by Pompeius’ steeds, whose horny hoofs Rang in their gallop on the grassy fields And killed the succulence. They strengthless lay Upon the mown expanse, nor pile of straw, Brought from full barns in place of living grass, Relieved their craving; shook their panting flanks, And as they wheeled Death struck his victim down. Then foul contagion filled the murky air Whose poisonous weight pressed on them in a cloud Pestiferous; as in Nesis’ isle (5) the breath Of Styx rolls upwards from the mist-clad rocks; Or that fell vapour which the caves exhale From Typhon (6) raging in the depths below. Then died the soldiers, for the streams they drank Held yet more poison than the air: the skin Was dark and rigid, and the fiery plague Made hard their vitals, and with pitiless tooth Gnawed at their wasted features, while their eyes Started from out their sockets, and the head Drooped for sheer weariness. So the disease Grew swifter in its strides till scarce was room, ‘Twixt life and death, for sickness, and the pest Slew as it struck its victim, and the dead Thrust from the tents (such all their burial) lay Blent with the living. Yet their camp was pitched Hard by the breezy sea by which might come All nations’ harvests, and the northern wind Not seldom rolled the murky air away.
Their foe, not vexed with pestilential air Nor stagnant waters, ample range enjoyed Upon the spacious uplands: yet as though In leaguer, famine seized them for its prey. Scarce were the crops half grown when Caesar saw How prone they seized upon the food of beasts, And stripped of leaves the bushes and the groves, And dragged from roots unknown the doubtful herb. Thus ate they, starving, all that teeth may bite Or fire might soften, or might pass their throats Dry, parched, abraded; food unknown before Nor placed on tables: while the leaguered foe Was blessed with plenty.
When Pompeius first
Was pleased to break his bonds and be at large, No sudden dash he makes on sleeping foe
Unarmed in shade of night; his mighty soul Scorns such a path to victory. ‘Twas his aim, To lay the turrets low; to mark his track, By ruin spread afar; and with the sword
To hew a path between his slaughtered foes. Minucius’ (7) turret was the chosen spot Where groves of trees and thickets gave approach Safe, unbetrayed by dust.
Up from the fields
Flashed all at once his eagles into sight And all his trumpets blared. But ere the sword Could win the battle, on the hostile ranks Dread panic fell; prone as in death they lay Where else upright they should withstand the foe; Nor more availed their valour, and in vain The cloud of weapons flew, with none to slay. Then blazing torches rolling pitchy flame Are hurled, and shaken nod the lofty towers And threaten ruin, and the bastions groan Struck by the frequent engine, and the troops Of Magnus by triumphant eagles led
Stride o’er the rampart, in their front the world.
Yet now that passage which not Caesar’s self Nor thousand valiant squadrons had availed To rescue from their grasp, one man in arms Steadfast till death refused them; Scaeva named This hero soldier: long he served in fight Waged ‘gainst the savage on the banks of Rhone; And now centurion made, through deeds of blood, He bore the staff before the marshalled line. Prone to all wickedness, he little recked How valourous deeds in civil war may be
Greatest of crimes; and when he saw how turned His comrades from the war and sought in flight A refuge, (8) “Whence,” he cried, “this impious fear Unknown to Caesar’s armies? Do ye turn
Your backs on death, and are ye not ashamed Not to be found where slaughtered heroes lie? Is loyalty too weak? Yet love of fight
Might bid you stand. We are the chosen few Through whom the foe would break. Unbought by blood This day shall not be theirs. ‘Neath Caesar’s eye, True, death would be more happy; but this boon Fortune denies: at least my fall shall be Praised by Pompeius. Break ye with your breasts Their weapons; blunt the edges of their swords With throats unyielding. In the distant lines The dust is seen already, and the sound
Of tumult and of ruin finds the ear Of Caesar: strike; the victory is ours:
For he shall come who while his soldiers die Shall make the fortress his.” His voice called forth The courage that the trumpets failed to rouse When first they rang: his comrades mustering come To watch his deeds; and, wondering at the man, To test if valour thus by foes oppressed, In narrow space, could hope for aught but death. But Scaeva standing on the tottering bank Heaves from the brimming turret on the foe The corpses of the fallen; the ruined mass Furnishing weapons to his hands; with beams, And ponderous stones, nay, with his body threats His enemies; with poles and stakes he thrusts The breasts advancing; when they grasp the wall He lops the arm: rocks crush the foeman’s skull And rive the scalp asunder: fiery bolts
Dashed at another set his hair aflame, Till rolls the greedy blaze about his eyes With hideous crackle. As the pile of slain Rose to the summit of the wall he sprang, Swift as across the nets a hunted pard,
Above the swords upraised, till in mid throng Of foes he stood, hemmed in by densest ranks And ramparted by war; in front and rear, Where’er he struck, the victor. Now his sword Blunted with gore congealed no more could wound, But brake the stricken limb; while every hand Flung every quivering dart at him alone; Nor missed their aim, for rang against his shield Dart after dart unerring, and his helm
In broken fragments pressed upon his brow; His vital parts were safeguarded by spears That bristled in his body. Fortune saw
Thus waged a novel combat, for there warred Against one man an army. Why with darts, Madmen, assail him and with slender shafts, ‘Gainst which his life is proof? Or ponderous stones This warrior chief shall overwhelm, or bolts Flung by the twisted thongs of mighty slings. Let steelshod ram or catapult remove
This champion of the gate. No fragile wall Stands here for Caesar, blocking with its bulk Pompeius’ way to freedom. Now he trusts
His shield no more, lest his sinister hand, Idle, give life by shame; and on his breast Bearing a forest of spears, though spent with toil And worn with onset, falls upon his foe
And braves alone the wounds of all the war. Thus may an elephant in Afric wastes,
Oppressed by frequent darts, break those that fall Rebounding from his horny hide, and shake Those that find lodgment, while his life within Lies safe, protected, nor doth spear avail To reach the fount of blood. Unnumbered wounds By arrow dealt, or lance, thus fail to slay This single warrior. But lo! from far
A Cretan archer’s shaft, more sure of aim Than vows could hope for, strikes on Scaeva’s brow To light within his eye: the hero tugs
Intrepid, bursts the nerves, and tears the shaft Forth with the eyeball, and with dauntless heel Treads them to dust. Not otherwise a bear Pannonian, fiercer for the wound received, Maddened by dart from Libyan thong propelled, Turns circling on her wound, and still pursues The weapon fleeing as she whirls around. Thus, in his rage destroyed, his shapeless face Stood foul with crimson flow. The victors’ shout Glad to the sky arose; no greater joy
A little blood could give them had they seen That Caesar’s self was wounded. Down he pressed Deep in his soul the anguish, and, with mien, No longer bent on fight, submissive cried, “Spare me, ye citizens; remove the war
Far hence: no weapons now can haste my death; Draw from my breast the darts, but add no more. Yet raise me up to place me in the camp
Of Magnus, living: this your gift to him; No brave man’s death my title to renown, But Caesar’s flag deserted.” So he spake. Unhappy Aulus thought his words were true, Nor saw within his hand the pointed sword; And leaping forth in haste to make his own The prisoner and his arms, in middle throat Received the lightning blade. By this one death Rose Scaeva’s valour again; and thus he cried, Such be the punishment of all who thought Great Scaeva vanquished; if Pompeius seeks Peace from this reeking sword, low let him lay At Caesar’s feet his standards. Me do ye think Such as yourselves, and slow to meet the fates? Your love for Magnus and the Senate’s cause Is less than mine for death.” These were his words; And dust in columns proved that Caesar came. Thus was Pompeius’ glory spared the stain Of flight compelled by Scaeva. He, when ceased The battle, fell, no more by rage of fight, Or sight of blood out-pouring from his wounds, Roused to the combat. Fainting there he lay Upon the shoulders of his comrades borne, Who him adoring (as though deity
Dwelt in his bosom) for his matchless deeds, Plucked forth the gory shafts and took his arms To deck the gods and shield the breast of Mars. Thrice happy thou with such a name achieved, Had but the fierce Iberian from thy sword, Or heavy shielded Teuton, or had fled
The light Cantabrian: with no spoils shalt thou Adorn the Thunderer’s temple, nor upraise The shout of triumph in the ways of Rome. For all thy prowess, all thy deeds of pride Do but prepare her lord.
Nor on this hand
Repulsed, Pompeius idly ceased from war, Content within his bars; but as the sea
Tireless, which tempests force upon the crag That breaks it, or which gnaws a mountain side Some day to fall in ruin on itself;
He sought the turrets nearest to the main, On double onset bent; nor closely kept
His troops in hand, but on the spacious plain Spread forth his camp. They joyful leave the tents And wander at their will. Thus Padus flows In brimming flood, and foaming at his bounds, Making whole districts quake; and should the bank Fail ‘neath his swollen waters, all his stream Breaks forth in swirling eddies over fields Not his before; some lands are lost, the rest Gain from his bounty.
Hardly from his tower
Had Caesar seen the fire or known the fight: And coming found the rampart overthrown, The dust no longer stirred, the rains cold As from a battle done. The peace that reigned There and on Magnus’ side, as though men slept, Their victory won, aroused his angry soul. Quick he prepares, so that he end their joy Careless of slaughter or defeat, to rush With threatening columns on Torquatus’ post. But swift as sailor, by his trembling mast Warned of Circeian tempest, furls his sails, So swift Torquatus saw, and prompt to wage The war more closely, he withdrew his men Within a narrower wall.
Now past the trench
Were Caesar’s companies, when from the hills Pompeius hurled his host upon their ranks Shut in, and hampered. Not so much o’erwhelmed As Caesar’s soldiers is the hind who dwells On Etna’s slopes, when blows the southern wind, And all the mountain pours its cauldrons forth Upon the vale; and huge Enceladus (9)
Writhing beneath his load spouts o’er the plains A blazing torrent.
Blinded by the dust,
Encircled, vanquished, ere the fight, they fled In cloud of terror on their rearward foe, So rushing on their fates. Thus had the war Shed its last drop of blood and peace ensued, But Magnus suffered not, and held his troops. Back from the battle.
Thou, oh Rome, had’st been Free, happy, mistress of thy laws and rights Were Sulla here. Now shalt thou ever grieve That in his crowning crime, to have met in fight A pious kinsman, Caesar’s vantage lay.
Oh tragic destiny! Nor Munda’s fight Hispania had wept, nor Libya mourned
Encrimsoned Utica, nor Nilus’ stream, With blood unspeakable polluted, borne
A nobler corse than her Egyptian kings: Nor Juba (10) lain unburied on the sands, Nor Scipio with his blood outpoured appeased The ghosts of Carthage; nor the blameless life Of Cato ended: and Pharsalia’s name
Had then been blotted from the book of fate.
But Caesar left the region where his arms Had found the deities averse, and marched His shattered columns to Thessalian lands. Then to Pompeius came (whose mind was bent To follow Caesar wheresoe’er he fled)
His captains, striving to persuade their chief To seek Ausonia, his native land,
Now freed from foes. “Ne’er will I pass,” he said, “My country’s limit, nor revisit Rome
Like Caesar, at the head of banded hosts. Hesperia when the war began was mine;
Mine, had I chosen in our country’s shrines, (11) In midmost forum of her capital,
To join the battle. So that banished far Be war from Rome, I’ll cross the torrid zone Or those for ever frozen Scythian shores. What! shall my victory rob thee of the peace I gave thee by my flight? Rather than thou Should’st feel the evils of this impious war, Let Caesar deem thee his.” Thus said, his course He turned towards the rising of the sun, And following devious paths, through forests wide, Made for Emathia, the land by fate
Foredoomed to see the issue.
Thessalia on that side where Titan first Raises the wintry day, by Ossa’s rocks
Is prisoned in: but in th’ advancing year When higher in the vault his chariot rides ‘Tis Pelion that meets the morning rays. And when beside the Lion’s flames he drives The middle course, Othrys with woody top Screens his chief ardour. On the hither side Pindus receives the breezes of the west
And as the evening falls brings darkness in. There too Olympus, at whose foot who dwells Nor fears the north nor sees the shining bear. Between these mountains hemmed, in ancient time The fields were marsh, for Tempe’s pass not yet Was cleft, to give an exit to the streams That filled the plain: but when Alcides’ hand Smote Ossa from Olympus at a blow, (12)
And Nereus wondered at the sudden flood Of waters to the main, then on the shore (Would it had slept for ever ‘neath the deep) Seaborn Achilles’ home Pharsalus rose;
And Phylace (13) whence sailed that ship of old Whose keel first touched upon the beach of Troy; And Dorion mournful for the Muses’ ire
On Thamyris (14) vanquished: Trachis; Melibe Strong in the shafts (15) of Hercules, the price Of that most awful torch; Larissa’s hold Potent of yore; and Argos, (16) famous erst, O’er which men pass the ploughshare: and the spot Fabled as Echionian Thebes, (17) where once Agave bore in exile to the pyre
(Grieving ’twas all she had) the head and neck Of Pentheus massacred. The lake set free Flowed forth in many rivers: to the west Aeas, (18) a gentle stream; nor stronger flows The sire of Isis ravished from his arms; And Achelous, rival for the hand
Of Oeneus’ daughter, rolls his earthy flood (19) To silt the shore beside the neighbouring isles. Evenus (20) purpled by the Centaur’s blood Wanders through Calydon: in the Malian Gulf Thy rapids fall, Spercheius: pure the wave With which Amphrysos (21) irrigates the meads Where once Apollo served: Anaurus (22) flows Breathing no vapour forth; no humid air
Ripples his face: and whatever stream, Nameless itself, to Ocean gives its waves Through thee, Peneus: (23) whirled in eddies foams Apidanus; Enipeus lingers on
Swift only when fresh streams his volume swell: And thus Asopus takes his ordered course, Phoenix and Melas; but Eurotas keeps
His stream aloof from that with which he flows, Peneus, gliding on his top as though
Upon the channel. Fable says that, sprung From darkest pools of Styx, with common floods He scorns to mingle, mindful of his source, So that the gods above may fear him still.
Soon as were sped the rivers, Boebian ploughs Dark with its riches broke the virgin soil; Then came Lelegians to press the share,
And Dolopes and sons of Oeolus
By whom the glebe was furrowed. Steed-renowned Magnetians dwelt there, and the Minyan race Who smote the sounding billows with the oar. There in the cavern from the pregnant cloud Ixion’s sons found birth, the Centaur brood Half beast, half human: Monychus who broke The stubborn rocks of Pholoe, Rhoetus fierce Hurling from Oeta’s top gigantic elms
Which northern storms could hardly overturn; Pholus, Alcides’ host: Nessus who bore
The Queen across Evenus’ (24) waves, to feel The deadly arrow for his shameful deed;
And aged Chiron (25) who with wintry star Against the huger Scorpion draws his bow. Here sparkled on the land the warrior seed; (26) Here leaped the charger from Thessalian rocks (27) Struck by the trident of the Ocean King, Omen of dreadful war; here first he learned, Champing the bit and foaming at the curb, Yet to obey his lord. From yonder shore
The keel of pine first floated, (28) and bore men To dare the perilous chance of seas unknown: And here Ionus ruler of the land
First from the furnace molten masses drew Of iron and brass; here first the hammer fell To weld them, shapeless; here in glowing stream Ran silver forth and gold, soon to receive The minting stamp. ‘Twas thus that money came Whereby men count their riches, cause accursed Of warfare. Hence came down that Python huge On Cirrha: hence the laurel wreath which crowns The Pythian victor: here Aloeus’ sons
Gigantic rose against the gods, what time Pelion had almost touched the stars supreme, And Ossa’s loftier peak amid the sky
Opposing, barred the constellations’ way.
When in this fated land the chiefs had placed Their several camps, foreboding of the end Now fast approaching, all men’s thoughts were turned Upon the final issue of the war.
And as the hour drew near, the coward minds Trembling beneath the shadow of the fate Now hanging o’er them, deemed disaster near: While some took heart; yet doubted what might fall, In hope and fear alternate. ‘Mid the throng Sextus, unworthy son of worthy sire
Who soon upon the waves that Scylla guards, (29) Sicilian pirate, exile from his home,
Stained by his deeds of shame the fights he won, Could bear delay no more; his feeble soul, Sick of uncertain fate, by fear compelled, Forecast the future: yet consulted not
The shrine of Delos nor the Pythian caves; Nor was he satisfied to learn the sound
Of Jove’s brass cauldron, ‘mid Dodona’s oaks, By her primaeval fruits the nurse of men: Nor sought he sages who by flight of birds, Or watching with Assyrian care the stars And fires of heaven, or by victims slain, May know the fates to come; nor any source Lawful though secret. For to him was known That which excites the hate of gods above; Magicians’ lore, the savage creed of Dis And all the shades; and sad with gloomy rites Mysterious altars. For his frenzied soul Heaven knew too little. And the spot itself Kindled his madness, for hard by there dwelt The brood of Haemon (30) whom no storied witch Of fiction e’er transcended; all their art In things most strange and most incredible; There were Thessalian rocks with deadly herbs Thick planted, sensible to magic chants, Funereal, secret: and the land was full
Of violence to the gods: the Queenly guest (31) From Colchis gathered here the fatal roots That were not in her store: hence vain to heaven Rise impious incantations, all unheard;
For deaf the ears divine: save for one voice Which penetrates the furthest depths of airs Compelling e’en th’ unwilling deities
To hearken to its accents. Not the care Of the revolving sky or starry pole
Can call them from it ever. Once the sound Of those dread tones unspeakable has reached The constellations, then nor Babylon
Nor secret Memphis, though they open wide The shrines of ancient magic and entreat The gods, could draw them from the fires that smoke Upon the altars of far Thessaly.
To hearts of flint those incantations bring Love, strange, unnatural; the old man’s breast Burns with illicit fire. Nor lies the power In harmful cup nor in the juicy pledge
Of love maternal from the forehead drawn; (32) Charmed forth by spells alone the mind decays, By poisonous drugs unharmed. With woven threads Crossed in mysterious fashion do they bind Those whom no passion born of beauteous form Or loving couch unites. All things on earth Change at their bidding; night usurps the day; The heavens disobey their wonted laws;
At that dread hymn the Universe stands still; And Jove while urging the revolving wheels Wonders they move not. Torrents are outpoured Beneath a burning sun; and thunder roars Uncaused by Jupiter. From their flowing locks Vapours immense shall issue at their call; When falls the tempest seas shall rise and foam (33) Moved by their spell; though powerless the breeze To raise the billows. Ships against the wind With bellying sails move onward. From the rock Hangs motionless the torrent: rivers run Uphill; the summer heat no longer swells Nile in his course; Maeander’s stream is straight; Slow Rhone is quickened by the rush of Saone; Hills dip their heads and topple to the plain; Olympus sees his clouds drift overhead;
And sunless Scythia’s sempiternal snows Melt in mid-winter; the inflowing tides
Driven onward by the moon, at that dread chant Ebb from their course; earth’s axes, else unmoved, Have trembled, and the force centripetal Has tottered, and the earth’s compacted frame Struck by their voice has gaped, (34) till through the void Men saw the moving sky. All beasts most fierce And savage fear them, yet with deadly aid Furnish the witches’ arts. Tigers athirst For blood, and noble lions on them fawn
With bland caresses: serpents at their word Uncoil their circles, and extended glide Along the surface of the frosty field;
The viper’s severed body joins anew; And dies the snake by human venom slain.
Whence comes this labour on the gods, compelled To hearken to the magic chant and spells, Nor daring to despise them? Doth some bond Control the deities? Is their pleasure so, Or must they listen? and have silent threats Prevailed, or piety unseen received
So great a guerdon? Against all the gods Is this their influence, or on one alone Who to his will constrains the universe, Himself constrained? Stars most in yonder clime Shoot headlong from the zenith; and the moon Gliding serene upon her nightly course
Is shorn of lustre by their poisonous chant, Dimmed by dark earthly fires, as though our orb Shadowed her brother’s radiance and barred The light bestowed by heaven; nor freshly shines Until descending nearer to the earth
She sheds her baneful drops upon the mead.
These sinful rites and these her sister’s songs Abhorred Erichtho, fiercest of the race, Spurned for their piety, and yet viler art Practised in novel form. To her no home
Beneath a sheltering roof her direful head Thus to lay down were crime: deserted tombs Her dwelling-place, from which, darling of hell, She dragged the dead. Nor life nor gods forbad But that she knew the secret homes of Styx And learned to hear the whispered voice of ghosts At dread mysterious meetings. (35) Never sun Shed his pure light upon that haggard cheek Pale with the pallor of the shades, nor looked Upon those locks unkempt that crowned her brow. In starless nights of tempest crept the hag Out from her tomb to seize the levin bolt; Treading the harvest with accursed foot
She burned the fruitful growth, and with her breath Poisoned the air else pure. No prayer she breathed Nor supplication to the gods for help
Nor knew the pulse of entrails as do men Who worship. Funeral pyres she loves to light And snatch the incense from the flaming tomb. The gods at her first utterance grant her prayer For things unlawful, lest they hear again Its fearful accents: men whose limbs were quick With vital power she thrust within the grave Despite the fates who owed them years to come: The funeral reversed brought from the tomb Those who were dead no longer; and the pyre Yields to her shameless clutch still smoking dust And bones enkindled, and the torch which held Some grieving sire but now, with fragments mixed In sable smoke and ceremental cloths
Singed with the redolent fire that burned the dead. But those who lie within a stony cell
Untouched by fire, whose dried and mummied frames No longer know corruption, limb by limb
Venting her rage she tears, the bloodless eyes Drags from their cavities, and mauls the nail Upon the withered hand: she gnaws the noose By which some wretch has died, and from the tree Drags down a pendent corpse, its members torn Asunder to the winds: forth from the palms Wrenches the iron, and from the unbending bond Hangs by her teeth, and with her hands collects The slimy gore which drips upon the limbs.
Where lay a corpse upon the naked earth On ravening birds and beasts of prey the hag Kept watch, nor marred by knife or hand her spoil, Till on his victim seized some nightly wolf; (36) Then dragged the morsel from his thirsty fangs; Nor fears she murder, if her rites demand Blood from the living, or some banquet fell Requires the panting entrail. Pregnant wombs Yield to her knife the infant to be placed On flaming altars: and whene’er she needs Some fierce undaunted ghost, he fails not her Who has all deaths in use. Her hand has chased From smiling cheeks the rosy bloom of life; And with sinister hand from dying youth
Has shorn the fatal lock: and holding oft In foul embraces some departed friend
Severed the head, and through the ghastly lips, Held by her own apart, some impious tale Dark with mysterious horror hath conveyed Down to the Stygian shades.
When rumour brought
Her name to Sextus, in the depth of night, While Titan’s chariot beneath our earth
Wheeled on his middle course, he took his way Through fields deserted; while a faithful band, His wonted ministers in deeds of guilt,
Seeking the hag ‘mid broken sepulchres, Beheld her seated on the crags afar
Where Haemus falls towards Pharsalia’s plain. (37) There was she proving for her gods and priests Words still unknown, and framing numbered chants Of dire and novel purpose: for she feared Lest Mars might stray into another world, And spare Thessalian soil the blood ere long To flow in torrents; and she thus forbade Philippi’s field, polluted with her song, Thick with her poisonous distilments sown, To let the war pass by. Such deaths, she hopes, Soon shall be hers! the blood of all the world Shed for her use! to her it shall be given To sever from their trunks the heads of kings, Plunder the ashes of the noble dead,
Italia’s bravest, and in triumph add The mightiest warriors to her host of shades. And now what spoils from Magnus’ tombless corse Her hand may snatch, on which of Caesar’s limbs She soon may pounce, she makes her foul forecast And eager gloats.
To whom the coward son
Of Magnus thus: “Thou greatest ornament Of Haemon’s daughters, in whose power it lies Or to reveal the fates, or from its course To turn the future, be it mine to know
By thy sure utterance to what final end Fortune now guides the issue. Not the least Of all the Roman host on yonder plain
Am I, but Magnus’ most illustrious son, Lord of the world or heir to death and doom. The unknown affrights me: I can firmly face The certain terror. Bid my destiny
Yield to thy power the dark and hidden end, And let me fall foreknowing. From the gods Extort the truth, or, if thou spare the gods, Force it from hell itself. Fling back the gates That bar th’ Elysian fields; let Death confess Whom from our ranks he seeks. No humble task I bring, but worthy of Erichtho’s skill
Of such a struggle fought for such a prize To search and tell the issue.”
Then the witch
Pleased that her impious fame was noised abroad Thus made her answer: “If some lesser fates Thy wish had been to change, against their wish It had been easy to compel the gods
To its accomplishment. My art has power When of one man the constellations press The speedy death, to compass a delay;
And mine it is, though every star decrees A ripe old age, by mystic herbs to shear The life midway. But should some purpose set From the beginning of the universe,
And all the labouring fortunes of mankind, Be brought in question, then Thessalian art Bows to the power supreme. But if thou be Content to know the issue pre-ordained,
That shall be swiftly thine; for earth and air And sea and space and Rhodopaean crags
Shall speak the future. Yet it easiest seems Where death in these Thessalian fields abounds To raise a single corpse. From dead men’s lips Scarce cold, in fuller accents falls the voice; Not from some mummied flame in accents shrill Uncertain to the ear.”
Thus spake the hag
And through redoubled night, a squalid veil Swathing her pallid features, stole among Unburied carcases. Fast fled the wolves, The carrion birds with maw unsatisfied
Relaxed their talons, as with creeping step She sought her prophet. Firm must be the flesh As yet, though cold in death, and firm the lungs Untouched by wound. Now in the balance hung The fates of slain unnumbered; had she striven Armies to raise and order back to life
Whole ranks of warriors, the laws had failed Of Erebus; and, summoned up from Styx,
Its ghostly tenants had obeyed her call, And rising fought once more. At length the witch Picks out her victim with pierced throat agape Fit for her purpose. Gripped by pitiless hook O’er rocks she drags him to the mountain cave Accursed by her fell rites, that shall restore The dead man’s life.
Close to the hidden brink The land that girds the precipice of hell Sinks towards the depths: with ever falling leaves A wood o’ershadows, and a spreading yew
Casts shade impenetrable. Foul decay Fills all the space, and in the deep recess Darkness unbroken, save by chanted spells, Reigns ever. Not where gape the misty jaws Of caverned Taenarus, the gloomy bound
Of either world, through which the nether kings Permit the passage of the dead to earth, So poisonous, mephitic, hangs the air.
Nay, though the witch had power to call the shades Forth from the depths, ’twas doubtful if the cave Were not a part of hell. Discordant hues Flamed on her garb as by a fury worn;
Bare was her visage, and upon her brow Dread vipers hissed, beneath her streaming locks In sable coils entwined. But when she saw The youth’s companions trembling, and himself With eyes cast down, with visage as of death, Thus spake the witch: “Forbid your craven souls These fears to cherish: soon returning life This frame shall quicken, and in tones which reach Even the timorous ear shall speak the man. If I have power the Stygian lakes to show, The bank that sounds with fire, the fury band, And giants lettered, and the hound that shakes Bristling with heads of snakes his triple head, What fear is this that cringes at the sight Of timid shivering shades?”
Then to her prayer.
First through his gaping bosom blood she pours Still fervent, washing from his wounds the gore. Then copious poisons from the moon distils Mixed with all monstrous things which Nature’s pangs Bring to untimely birth; the froth from dogs Stricken with madness, foaming at the stream; A lynx’s entrails: and the knot that grows Upon the fell hyaena; flesh of stags
Fed upon serpents; and the sucking fish Which holds the vessel back (38) though eastern winds Make bend the canvas; dragon’s eyes; and stones That sound beneath the brooding eagle’s wings. Nor Araby’s viper, nor the ocean snake
Who in the Red Sea waters guards the shell, Are wanting; nor the slough on Libyan sands By horned reptile cast; nor ashes fail
Snatched from an altar where the Phoenix died. And viler poisons many, which herself
Has made, she adds, whereto no name is given: Pestiferous leaves pregnant with magic chants And blades of grass which in their primal growth Her cursed mouth had slimed. Last came her voice More potent than all herbs to charm the gods Who rule in Lethe. Dissonant murmurs first And sounds discordant from the tongues of men She utters, scarce articulate: the bay
Of wolves, and barking as of dogs, were mixed With that fell chant; the screech of nightly owl Raising her hoarse complaint; the howl of beast And sibilant hiss of snake — all these were there; And more — the waft of waters on the rock, The sound of forests and the thunder peal. Such was her voice; but soon in clearer tones Reaching to Tartarus, she raised her song: “Ye awful goddesses, avenging power
Of Hell upon the damned, and Chaos huge Who striv’st to mix innumerable worlds,
And Pluto, king of earth, whose weary soul Grieves at his godhead; Styx; and plains of bliss We may not enter: and thou, Proserpine,
Hating thy mother and the skies above, My patron goddess, last and lowest form (39) Of Hecate through whom the shades and I
Hold silent converse; warder of the gate Who castest human offal to the dog:
Ye sisters who shall spin the threads again; (40) And thou, O boatman of the burning wave, Now wearied of the shades from hell to me Returning, hear me if with voice I cry
Abhorred, polluted; if the flesh of man Hath ne’er been absent from my proffered song, Flesh washed with brains still quivering; if the child Whose severed head I placed upon the dish But for this hand had lived — a listening ear Lend to my supplication! From the caves
Hid in the innermost recess of hell I claim no soul long banished from the light. For one but now departed, lingering still Upon the brink of Orcus, is my prayer.
Grant (for ye may) that listening to the spell Once more he seek his dust; and let the shade Of this our soldier perished (if the war Well at your hands has merited), proclaim