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