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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!




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