Pharsalia; Dramatic Episodes of the Civil Wars. Lucan

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       Is civil conquest then so base and vile?

       Lead us through Scythian deserts, lead us where

       The inhospitable Syrtes line the shore

       Of Afric's burning sands, or where thou wilt:

       This hand, to leave a conquered world behind,

       Held firm the oar that tamed the Northern Sea

       And Rhine's swift torrent foaming to the main.

       To follow thee fate gives me now the power:

       The will was mine before. No citizen

       I count the man 'gainst whom thy trumpets sound.

       By ten campaigns of victory, I swear,

       By all thy world-wide triumphs, though with hand

       Unwilling, should'st thou now demand the life

       Of sire or brother or of faithful spouse,

       Caesar, the life were thine. To spoil the gods

       And sack great Juno's temple on the hill,

       To plant our arms o'er Tiber's yellow stream,

       To measure out the camp, against the wall

       To drive the fatal ram, and raze the town,

       This arm shall not refuse, though Rome the prize."

      His comrades swore consent with lifted hands

       And vowed to follow wheresoe'er he led.

       And such a clamour rent the sky as when

       Some Thracian blast on Ossa's pine-clad rocks

       Falls headlong, and the loud re-echoing woods,

       Or bending, or rebounding from the stroke,

       In sounding chorus lift the roar on high.

      When Csesar saw them welcome thus the war

       And Fortune leading on, and favouring fates,

       He seized the moment, called his troops from Gaul,

       And breaking up his camp set on for Rome.

      The tents are vacant by Lake Leman's side;

       The camps upon the beetling crags of Vosges

       No longer hold the warlike Lingon down,

       Fierce in his painted arms; Isere is left,

       Who past his shallows gliding, flows at last

       Into the current of more famous Rhone,

       To reach the ocean in another name.

       The fair-haired people of Cevennes are free:

       Soft Aude rejoicing bears no Roman keel,

       Nor pleasant Var, since then Italia's bound;

       The harbour sacred to Alcides' name

       Where hollow crags encroach upon the sea,

       Is left in freedom: there nor Zephyr gains

       Nor Caurus access, but the Circian blast (16)

       Forbids the roadstead by Monaecus' hold.

       And others left the doubtful shore, which sea

       And land alternate claim, whene'er the tide

       Pours in amain or when the wave rolls back —

       Be it the wind which thus compels the deep

       From furthest pole, and leaves it at the flood;

       Or else the moon that makes the tide to swell,

       Or else, in search of fuel (17) for his fires,

       The sun draws heavenward the ocean wave; —

       Whate'er the cause that may control the main

       I leave to others; let the gods for me

       Lock in their breasts the secrets of the world.

      Those who kept watch beside the western shore

       Have moved their standards home; the happy Gaul

       Rejoices in their absence; fair Garonne

       Through peaceful meads glides onward to the sea.

       And where the river broadens, neath the cape

       Her quiet harbour sleeps. No outstretched arm

       Except in mimic war now hurls the lance.

       No skilful warrior of Seine directs

       The scythed chariot 'gainst his country's foe.

       Now rest the Belgians, and the Arvernian race

       That boasts our kinship by descent from Troy;

       And those brave rebels whose undaunted hands

       Were dipped in Cotta's blood, and those who wear

       Sarmatian garb. Batavia's warriors fierce

       No longer listen for the bugle call,

       Nor those who dwell where Rhone's swift eddies sweep

       Saone to the ocean; nor the mountain tribes

       Who dwell about its source. Thou, too, oh Treves,

       Rejoicest that the war has left thy bounds.

       Ligurian tribes, now shorn, in ancient days

       First of the long-haired nations, on whose necks

       Once flowed the auburn locks in pride supreme;

       And those who pacify with blood accursed

       Savage Teutates, Hesus' horrid shrines,

       And Taranis' altars cruel as were those

       Loved by Diana (18), goddess of the north;

       All these now rest in peace. And you, ye Bards,

       Whose martial lays send down to distant times

       The fame of valorous deeds in battle done,

       Pour forth in safety more abundant song.

       While you, ye Druids (19), when the war was done,

       To mysteries strange and hateful rites returned:

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