Pharsalia; Dramatic Episodes of the Civil Wars. Lucan

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">       But joyed in plaudits of the theatre, (8)

       His gift to Rome: his triumphs in the past,

       Himself the shadow of a mighty name.

       As when some oak, in fruitful field sublime,

       Adorned with venerable spoils, and gifts

       Of bygone leaders, by its weight to earth

       With feeble roots still clings; its naked arms

       And hollow trunk, though leafless, give a shade;

       And though condemned beneath the tempest's shock

       To speedy fall, amid the sturdier trees

       In sacred grandeur rules the forest still.

       No such repute had Ceesar won, nor fame;

       But energy was his that could not rest —

       The only shame he knew was not to win.

       Keen and unvanquished (9), where revenge or hope

       Might call, resistless would he strike the blow

       With sword unpitying: every victory won

       Reaped to the full; the favour of the gods

       Pressed to the utmost; all that stayed his course

       Aimed at the summit of power, was thrust aside:

       Triumph his joy, though ruin marked his track.

       As parts the clouds a bolt by winds compelled,

       With crack of riven air and crash of worlds,

       And veils the light of day, and on mankind,

       Blasting their vision with its flames oblique,

       Sheds deadly fright; then turning to its home, '

       Nought but the air opposing, through its path

       Spreads havoc, and collects its scattered fires.

      Such were the hidden motives of the chiefs;

       But in the public life the seeds of war

       Their hold had taken, such as are the doom

       Of potent nations: and when fortune poured

       Through Roman gates the booty of a world,

       The curse of luxury, chief bane of states,

       Fell on her sons. Farewell the ancient ways!

       Behold the pomp profuse, the houses decked

       With ornament; their hunger loathed the food

       Of former days; men wore attire for dames

       Scarce fitly fashioned; poverty was scorned,

       Fruitful of warriors; and from all the world

       Came that which ruins nations; while the fields

       Furrowed of yore by great Camillus' plough,

       Or by the mattock which a Curius held,

       Lost their once narrow bounds, and widening tracts

       By hinds unknown were tilled. No nation this

       To sheathe the sword, with tranquil peace content

       And with her liberties; but prone to ire;

       Crime holding light as though by want compelled:

       And great the glory in the minds of men,

       Ambition lawful even at point of sword,

       To rise above their country: might their law:

       Decrees are forced from Senate and from Plebs:

       Consul and Tribune break the laws alike:

       Bought are the fasces, and the people sell

       For gain their favour: bribery's fatal curse

       Corrupts the annual contests of the Field.

       Then covetous usury rose, and interest

       Was greedier ever as the seasons came;

       Faith tottered; thousands saw their gain in war.

      Caesar has crossed the Alps, his mighty soul

       Great tumults pondering and the coming shock.

       Now on the marge of Rubicon, he saw,

       In face most sorrowful and ghostly guise,

       His trembling country's image; huge it seemed

       Through mists of night obscure; and hoary hair

       Streamed from the lofty front with turrets crowned:

       Torn were her locks and naked were her arms.

       Then thus, with broken sighs the Vision spake:

       "What seek ye, men of Rome? and whither hence

       Bear ye my standards? If by right ye come,

       My citizens, stay here; these are the bounds;

       No further dare." But Caesar's hair was stiff

       With horror as he gazed, and ghastly dread

       Restrained his footsteps on the further bank.

       Then spake he, "Thunderer, who from the rock

       Tarpeian seest the wall of mighty Rome;

       Gods of my race who watched o'er Troy of old;

       Thou Jove of Alba's height, and Vestal fires,

       And rites of Romulus erst rapt to heaven,

       And God-like Rome; be friendly to my quest.

       Not with offence or hostfie arms I come,

       Thy Caesar, conqueror by land and sea,

       Thy soldier here and wheresoe'er thou wilt:

       No other's; his, his only be the guilt

       Whose acts make me thy foe.' He gives the word

       And bids his standards cross the swollen stream.

       So in the wastes of Afric's burning clime

       The lion crouches as his foes draw near,

       Feeding his wrath the while, his lashing tail

       Provokes his СКАЧАТЬ