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Once more were earth, and in the distance rose
Some groves of scantyfoliage, and huts

Of plastered straw unfashioned: and their hearts
Leaped at the prospect of a better land.

How fled their sorrow! how with growing joy
They met the savage lion in the path!

In tranquil Leptis first they found retreat:
And passed a winter free from heat and rain. (31)

When Caesar sated with Emathia's slain
Forsook the battlefield, all other cares

Neglected, he pursued his kinsman fled,
On him alone intent: by land his steps

He traced in vain; then, rumour for his guide,
He crossed the sea and reached the Thracian strait

For love renowned; where on the mournful shore
Rose Hero's tower, and Helle born of cloud (32)

Took from the rolling waves their former name.
Nowhere with shorter space the sea divides

Europe from Asia; though Pontus parts
By scant division from Byzantium's hold

Chalcedon oyster-rich: and small the strait
Through which Propontis pours the Euxine wave.

Then marvelling at their ancient fame, he seeks
Sigeum's sandy beach and Simois' stream,

Rhoeteum noble for its Grecian tomb,
And all the hero's shades, the theme of song.

Next by the town of Troy burnt down of old
Now but a memorable name, he turns

His steps, and searches for the mighty stones
Relics of Phoebus' wall. But bare with age

Forests of trees and hollow mouldering trunks
Pressed down Assaracus' palace, and with roots

Wearied, possessed the temples of the gods.
All Pergamus with densest brake was veiled

And even her stones were perished. He beheld
Thy rock, Hesione; the hidden grove,

Anchises' nuptialchamber; and the cave
Where sat the arbiter; the spot from which

Was snatched the beauteous youth; the mountain lawn
Where played Oenone. Not a stone but told

The story of the past. A little stream
Scarce trickling through the arid plain he passed,

Nor knew 'twas Xanthus: deep in grass he placed,
Careless, his footstep; but the herdsman cried

"Thou tread'st the dust of Hector." Stones confused
Lay at his feet in sacred shape no more:

"Look on the altar of Jove," thus spake the guide,
"God of the household, guardian of the home."

O sacred task of poets, toil supreme,
Which rescuing all things from allotted fate

Dost give eternity to mortal men!
Grudge not the glory, Caesar, of such fame.

For if the Latian Muse may promise aught,
Long as the heroes of the Trojan time

Shall live upon the page of Smyrna's bard,
So long shall future races read of thee

In this my poem; and Pharsalia's song
Live unforgotten in the age to come.

When by the ancient grandeur of the place
The chieftain's sight was filled, of gathered turf

Altars he raised: and as the sacred flame
Cast forth its odours, these not idle vows

Gave to the gods, "Ye deities of the dead,
Who watch o'er Phrygian ruins: ye who now

Lavinia's homes inhabit, and Alba's height:
Gods of my sire Aeneas, in whose fanes

The Trojan fire still burns: pledge of the past
Mysterious Pallas, (24) of the inmost shrine,

Unseen of men! here in your ancient seat,
Most famous offspring of Iulus' race,

I call upon you and with pious hand
Burn frequent offerings. To my emprise

Give prosperous ending! Here shall I replace
The Phrygian peoples, here with glad return

Italia's sons shall build another Troy,
Here rise a Roman Pergamus."

This said,
He seeks his fleet, and eager to regain

Time spent at Ilium, to the favouring breeze
Spreads all his canvas. Past rich Asia borne,

Rhodes soon he left while foamed the sparkling main
Beneath his keels; nor ceased the wind to stretch

His bending sails, till on the seventh night
The Pharian beam proclaimed Egyptian shores.

But day arose, and veiled the nightly lamp
Ere rode his barks on waters safe from storm.

Then Caesar saw that tumult held the shore,
And mingled voices of uncertain sound

Struck on his ear: and trusting not himself
To doubtful kingdoms, of uncertain troth,

He kept his ships from land.
But from the king

Came his vile minion forth upon the wave,
Bearing his dreadful gift, Pompeius' head,

Wrapped in a covering of Pharian wool.
First took he speech and thus in shameless words

Commends the murder: "Conqueror of the world,
First of the Roman race, and, what as yet

Thou dost not know, safe by thy kinsman slain;
This gift receive from the Pellaean king,

Sole trophyabsent from the Thracian field,
To crown thy toils on lands and on the deep.

Here in thine absence have we placed for thee
An end upon the war. Here Magnus came

To mend his fallen fortunes; on our swords
Here met his death. With such a pledge of faith

Here have we bought thee, Caesar; with his blood
Seal we this treaty. Take the Pharian realm

Sought by no bloodshed, take the rule of Nile,
Take all that thou would'st give for Magnus' life:

And hold him vassalworthy of thy camp
To whom the fates against thy son-in-law

Such power entrusted; nor hold thou the deed
Lightly accomplished by the swordsman's stroke,

And so the merit. Guest ancestral he
Who was its victim; who, his sire expelled,

Gave back to him the sceptre. For a deed
So great, thou'lt find a name -- or ask the world.

If 'twas a crime, thou must confess the debt
To us the greater, for that from thy hand

We took the doing."
Then he held and showed

Unveiled the head. Now had the hand of death
Passed with its changing touch upon the face:

Nor at first sight did Caesar on the gift
Pass condemnation; nor avert his gaze,

But dwelt upon the features till he knew
The crime accomplished. Then when truth was sure

The loving father rose, and tears he shed
Which flowed at his command, and glad in heart

Forced from his breast a groan: thus by the flow
Of feigned tears and grief he hoped to hide

His joy else manifest: and the ghastly boon
Sent by the king disparaging, professed

Rather to mourn his son's dissevered head,
Than count it for a debt. For thee alone,

Magnus, he durst not fail to find a tear:
He, Caesar, who with mien unaltered spurned

The Roman Senate, and with eyes undimmed
Looked on Pharsalia's field. O fate most hard!

Didst thou with impious war pursue the man
Whom 'twas thy lot to mourn? No kindred ties

No memory of thy daughter and her son
Touch on thy heart. Didst think perchance that grief

Might help thy cause 'mid lovers of his name?
Or haply, moved by envy of the king,

Griev'st that to other hands than thine was given
To shed the captive's life-blood? and complain'st

Thy vengeanceperished and the conquered chief
Snatched from thy haughty hand? Whate'er the cause

That urged thy grief, 'twas far removed from love.
Was this forsooth the object of thy toil

O'er lands and oceans, that without thy ken
He should not perish? Nay! but well was reft

From thine arbitrament his fate. What crime
Did cruel Fortune spare, what depth of shame

To Roman honour! since she suffered not,
Perfidious traitor, while yet Magnus lived,

That thou should'st pity him!
Thus by words he dared,

To gain their credence in his sembled grief:
"Hence from my sight with thy detested gift,

Thou minion, to thy King. Worse does your crime
Deserve from Caesar than from Magnus' hands.

The only prize that civil war affords
Thus have we lost -- to bid the conquered live.

If but the sister of this Pharian king
Were not by him detested, by the head

Of Cleopatra had I paid this gift.
Such were the fit return. Why did he draw

His separate sword, and in the toil that's ours
Mingle his weapons? In Thessalia's field

Gave we such right to the Pellaean blade?
Magnus as partner in the rule of Rome

I had not brooked; and shall I tolerate
Thee, Ptolemaeus? In vain with civil wars

Thus have we roused the nations, if there be
Now any might but Caesar's. If one land

Yet owned two masters, I had turned from yours
The prows of Latium; but fame forbids,

Lest men should whisper that I did not damn
This deed of blood, but feared the Pharian land.

Nor think ye to deceive; victorious here
I stand: else had my welcome at your hands

Been that of Magnus; and that neck were mine
But for Pharsalia's chance. At greater risk

So seems it, than we dreamed of, took we arms;
Exile, and Magnus' threats, and Rome I knew,

Not Ptolemaeus. But we spare the boy:
Pass by the murder. Let the princeling know

We give no more than pardon for his crime.
And now in honour of the mighty dead,

Not merely that the earth may hide your guilt,
Lay ye the chieftain's head within the tomb;

With proper sepulture appease his shade
And place his scattered ashes in an urn.

Thus may he know my coming, and may hear
Affection's accents, and my fond complaints.

Me sought he not, but rather, for his life,
This Pharian vassal; snatching from mankind

The happy morning which had shown the world


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