Book 2
Of those whom mortals supplicate. Nor all
1
Lay in the Thunderer's fane: at every shrine
Some prayers were offered which refused would bring
Reproach on heaven. One whose livid arms
Were dark with blows, whose cheeks with tears bedewed,
Cried, 'Now, unhappy mothers, rend the lock,
Nor keep your sorrows till the battle day :
Now ye may weep: when either chieftain wins
Rejoice ye must.' Thus sorrow stirs itself.
Meanwhile the men in seeking either camp
And marching onward in the path to war,
Address the cruel gods in just complaint.
Happy the youths who born in Punic days
On Cannae's uplands or by Trebia's stream
Fought and were slain! What wretched lot is ours!
No peace we ask for: let the nations rage;
Rouse fiercest cities! may the world find arms
To wage a war with Rome: let Parthian hosts
Rush forth from Susa; Scythian Ister curb
' No more the Massagete: unconquered Rhine
' Let loose from furthest North her fair-haired tribes:
' Elbe, pour thy Suevians forth! Let us be foes
' Of all the peoples. May the Getan press
' Here, and the Dacian there; Pompeius meet
'The Eastern archers, Caesar in the West
' Confront th' Iberian. Leave to Rome no hand
' To raise against herself in civil strife.
' Or, if Italia by the gods be doomed,
' Let all the sky, fierce Parent, be dissolved
'And falling on the earth in flaming bolts,
' Their hands still bloodless, strike both leaders down,
' With both their hosts! Why plunge in novel crime
' To settle which of them shall rule in Rome?
' Scarce were it worth the price of civil war
' To hinder either.' Thus the patriot voice
Still found an utterance, soon to speak no more.
Meantime, the aged fathers o'er their fates
In anguish grieved, detesting life prolonged
That brought with it another civil war.
And thus spake one, to justify his fears:
