Pharsalia; Dramatic Episodes of the Civil Wars

Excerpt

Wars worse than civil on Emathian (1) plains,And crime let loose we sing; how Rome's high racePlunged in her vitals her victorious sword;Armies akin embattled, with the forceOf all the shaken earth bent on the fray;And burst asunder, to the common guilt,A kingdom's compact; eagle with eagle met,Standard to standard, spear opposed to spear.

Whence, citizens, this rage, this boundless lustTo sate barbarians with the blood of Rome?Did not the shade of Crassus, wandering still, (2)Cry for his vengeance? Could ye not have spoiled,To deck your trophies, haughty Babylon?Why wage campaigns that send no laurels home?What lands, what oceans might have been the prizeOf all the blood thus shed in civil strife!Where Titan rises, where night hides the stars,'Neath southern noons all quivering with heat,Or where keen frost that never yields to springIn icy fetters binds the Scythian main:Long since barbarians by the Eastern seaAnd far Araxes' stream, and those who know(If any such there be) the birth of NileHad felt our yoke. Then, Rome, upon thyselfWith all the world beneath thee, if thou must,Wage this nefarious war, but not till then.

Now view the houses with half-ruined wallsThroughout Italian cities; stone from stoneHas slipped and lies at length; within the homeNo guard is found, and in the ancient streets soScarce seen the passer by. The fields in vain,Rugged with brambles and unploughed for years,Ask for the hand of man; for man is not.Nor savage Pyrrhus nor the Punic hordeE'er caused such havoc: to no foe was givenTo strike thus deep; but civil strife aloneDealt the fell wound and left the death behind.Yet if the fates could find no other way (3)For Nero coming, nor the gods with easeGain thrones in heaven; and if the ThundererPrevailed not till the giant's war was done,Complaint is silent. For this boon supremeWelcome, ye gods, be wickedness and crime;Thronged with our dead be dire Pharsalia's fields,Be Punic ghosts avenged by Roman blood;Add to these ills the toils of Mutina;Perusia's dearth; on Munda's final fieldThe shock of battle joined; let Leucas' CapeShatter the routed navies; servile handsUnsheath the sword on fiery Etna's slopes:Still Rome is gainer by the civil war.Thou, Caesar, art her prize. When thou shalt choose,Thy watch relieved, to seek divine abodes,All heaven rejoicing; and shalt hold a throne,Or else elect to govern Phoebus' carAnd light a subject world that shall not dreadTo owe her brightness to a different Sun;All shall concede thy right: do what thou wilt,Select thy Godhead, and the central climeWhence thou shalt rule the world with power divine.And yet the Northern or the Southern PoleWe pray thee, choose not; but in rays directVouchsafe thy radiance to thy city Rome.Press thou on either side, the universeShould lose its equipoise: take thou the midst,And weight the scales, and let that part of heavenWhere Caesar sits, be evermore sereneAnd smile upon us with unclouded blue....