Pharsalia; Dramatic Episodes of the Civil Wars

Lucan

• Publisher: pubOne.info
• Year: 2010
• eBook ISBN: 9782819927976
• Topic: Letteratura
• Subtopic: Classici

pubOne.info thank you for your continued support and wish to present you this new edition. Wars worse than civil on Emathian (1) plains,

BOOK IX

CATO

Yet in those ashes on the Pharian shore,

In that small heap of dust, was not confined

So great a shade; but from the limbs half burnt

And narrow cell sprang forth (1) and sought the sky

Where dwells the Thunderer. Black the space of air

Upreaching to the poles that bear on high

The constellations in their nightly round;

There 'twixt the orbit of the moon and earth

Abide those lofty spirits, half divine,

Who by their blameless lives and fire of soul

Are fit to tolerate the pure expanse

That bounds the lower ether: there shall dwell,

Where nor the monument encased in gold,

Nor richest incense, shall suffice to bring

The buried dead, in union with the spheres,

Pompeius' spirit. When with heavenly light

His soul was filled, first on the wandering stars

And fixed orbs he bent his wondering gaze;

Then saw what darkness veils our earthly day

And scorned the insults heaped upon his corse.

Next o'er Emathian plains he winged his flight,

And ruthless Caesar's standards, and the fleet

Tossed on the deep: in Brutus' blameless breast

Tarried awhile, and roused his angered soul

To reap the vengeance; last possessed the mind

Of haughty Cato.

He while yet the scales

Were poised and balanced, nor the war had given

The world its master, hating both the chiefs,

Had followed Magnus for the Senate's cause

And for his country: since Pharsalia's field

Ran red with carnage, now was all his heart

Bound to Pompeius. Rome in him received

Her guardian; a people's trembling limbs

He cherished with new hope and weapons gave

Back to the craven hands that cast them forth.

Nor yet for empire did he wage the war

Nor fearing slavery: nor in arms achieved

Aught for himself: freedom, since Magnus fell,

The aim of all his host. And lest the foe

In rapid course triumphant should collect

His scattered bands, he sought Corcyra's gulfs

Concealed, and thence in ships unnumbered bore

The fragments of the ruin wrought in Thrace.

Who in such mighty armament had thought

A routed army sailed upon the main

Thronging the sea with keels? Round Malea's cape

And Taenarus open to the shades below

And fair Cythera's isle, th' advancing fleet

Sweeps o'er the yielding wave, by northern breeze

Borne past the Cretan shores. But Phycus dared

Refuse her harbour, and th' avenging hand

Left her in ruins. Thus with gentle airs

They glide along the main and reach the shore

From Palinurus (2) named; for not alone

On seas Italian, Pilot of the deep,

Hast thou thy monument; and Libya too

Claims that her waters pleased thy soul of yore.

Then in the distance on the main arose

The shining canvas of a stranger fleet,

Or friend or foe they knew not. Yet they dread

In every keel the presence of that chief

Their fear-compelling conqueror. But in truth

That navy tears and sorrow bore, and woes

To make e'en Cato weep.

For when in vain

Cornelia prayed her stepson and the crew

To stay their flight, lest haply from the shore

Back to the sea might float the headless corse;

And when the flame arising marked the place

Of that unhallowed rite, "Fortune, didst thou

Judge me unfit, “ she cried, ”to light the pyre

To cast myself upon the hero dead,

The lock to sever, and compose the limbs

Tossed by the cruel billows of the deep,

To shed a flood of tears upon his wounds,

And from the flickering flame to bear away

And place within the temples of the gods

All that I could, his dust? That pyre bestows

No honour, haply by some Pharian hand

Piled up in insult to his mighty shade.

Happy the Crassi lying on the waste

Unburied. To the greater shame of heaven

Pompeius has such funeral. And shall this

For ever be my lot? her husbands slain

Cornelia ne'er enclose within the tomb,

Nor shed the tear beside the urn that holds

The ashes of the loved? Yet for my grief

What boots or monument or ordered pomp?

Dost thou not, impious, upon thy heart

Pompeius' image, and upon thy soul

Bear ineffaceable? Dust closed in urns

Is for the wife who would survive her lord

Not such as thee, Cornelia! And yet

Yon scanty light that glimmers from afar

Upon the Pharian shore, somewhat of thee

Recalls, Pompeius! Now the flame sinks down

And smoke drifts up across the eastern sky

Bearing thine ashes, and the rising wind

Sighs hateful in the sail. To me no more

Dearer than this whatever land may yield

Pompeius' victory, nor the frequent car

That carried him in triumph to the hill;

Gone is that happy husband from my thoughts;

Here did I lose the hero whom I knew;

Here let me stay; his presence shall endear

The sands of Nile where fell the fatal blow.

Thou, Sextus, brave the chances of the war

And bear Pompeius' standard through the world.

For thus thy father spake within mine ear:

'When sounds my fatal hour let both my sons

Urge on the war; nor l...

Table of contents

• BOOK I
• ENDNOTES:
• BOOK II
• ENDNOTES:
• BOOK III
• ENDNOTES:
• BOOK IV
• ENDNOTES:
• BOOK V
• ENDNOTES:
• BOOK VI
• ENDNOTES:
• BOOK VII
• ENDNOTES:
• BOOK VIII
• ENDNOTES:
• BOOK IX
• ENDNOTES:
• BOOK X
• ENDNOTES:
• PREPARER'S NOTES:
• —-DBK
• OTHER TRANSLATIONS —
• RECOMMENDED READING —
• Copyright