And Rome for thee shall have
subdued the world:
'Tis true no
triumph now would bring thee home;
No
captive tribes would grace thy
chariot wheels
Winding in pomp around the ancient hill.
Spite gnaws the factions; for thy conquests won
Scarce shalt thou be unpunished. Yet 'tis fate
Thou should'st
subdue thy kinsman: share the world
With him thou canst not; rule thou canst, alone."
As when at Elis'
festival a horse
In
stable pent gnaws at his prison bars
Impatient, and should clamour from without
Strike on his ear, bounds
furious at restraint,
So then was Caesar, eager for the fight,
Stirred by the words of Curio. To the ranks
He bids his soldiers; with
majestic mien
And hand commanding silence as they come.
"Comrades," he cried, "victorious returned,
Who by my side for ten long years have faced,
'Mid Alpine winters and on Arctic shores,
The thousand dangers of the battle-field --
Is this our country's
welcome, this her prize
For death and wounds and Roman blood outpoured?
Rome arms her choicest sons; the
sturdy oaks
Are felled to make a fleet; -- what could she more
If from the Alps
fierce Hannibal were come
With all his Punic host? By land and sea
Caesar shall fly! Fly? Though in
adverse war
Our best had fallen, and the
savage Gaul
Were hard upon our track, we would not fly.
And now, when fortune smiles and kindly gods
Beckon us on to glory! -- Let him come
Fresh from his years of peace, with all his crowd
Of conscript burgesses, Marcellus' tongue (12)
And Cato's empty name! We will not fly.
Shall Eastern hordes and
greedy hirelings keep
Their loved Pompeius ever at the helm?
Shall
chariots of
triumph be for him
Though youth and law forbad them? Shall he seize
On Rome's chief honours ne'er to be resigned?
And what of harvests (13) blighted through the world
And
ghastlyfamine made to serve his ends?
Who hath forgotten how Pompeius' bands
Seized on the forum, and with glittering arms
Made outraged justice tremble, while their swords
Hemmed in the judgment-seat where Milo (14) stood?
And now when worn and old and ripe for rest (15),
Greedy of power, the
impious sword again
He draws. As tigers in Hyrcanian woods
Wandering, or in the caves that saw their birth,
Once having lapped the blood of slaughtered kine,
Shall never cease from rage; e'en so this whelp
Of cruel Sulla, nursed in civil war,
Outstrips his master; and the tongue which licked
That reeking
weapon ever thirsts for more.
Stain once the lips with blood, no other meal
They shall enjoy. And shall there be no end
Of these long years of power and of crime?
Nay, this one lesson, e'er it be too late,
Learn of thy gentle Sulla -- to retire!
Of old his
victory o'er Cilician thieves
And Pontus' weary
monarch gave him fame,
By
poisonscarce attained. His latest prize
Shall I be, Caesar, I, who would not quit
My conquering eagles at his proud command?
Nay, if no
triumph is reserved for me,
Let these at least of long and toilsome war
'Neath other leaders the
rewards enjoy.
Where shall the weary soldier find his rest?
What
cottage homes their joys, what fields their fruit
Shall to our veterans yield? Will Magnus say
That pirates only till the fields alight?
Unfurl your standards;
victory gilds them yet,
As through those
glorious years. Deny our rights!