Book 3
More bent on war, with mind assured of ill,
1
'Why dread vain phantoms of a dreaming brain?
Or nought of sense and feeling to the soul
Is left by death; or death itself is nought.'
Now fiery Titan in declining path
Dipped to the waves, his bright circumference
So much diminished as a growing moon
Not yet full circled, or when past the full;
When to the fleet a hospitable coast
Gave access, and the ropes in order laid,
The sailors struck the masts and rowed ashore.
Thus was the fleet set free and rapt from view
By favouring breezes. On Italian soil
Sole lord stood Caesar: but he found no joy
In triumph over Magnus-rather grieved
That thus in safety had his flight been sped.
Not any gifts of fortune now sufficed
His fiery spirit; and no victory won,
Unless the war was finished with the stroke.
Then arms he laid aside, in guise of peace
Seeking the people's favour; skilled to know
How to arouse their ire, and how to gain
The popular love by corn in plenty given.
Alone through famine cities can be won;
By food a tyrant bribes the crowd to cringe;
And starving peoples know not how to fear.
He orders Curio to stem the waves
And cross to lands Sicilian, where of old
Or ocean by a sudden rise o'erwhelmed
The land, or split the isthmus right in twain,
Leaving a path for seas. The mighty deep
There labours ever lest again should meet
The mountains rent asunder. Nor were left
Sardinian shores unvisited: each isle
Is blest with noble harvests which have filled
More than all else the granaries of Rome,
And poured their plenty on Hesperia's shores.
Not even Libya, with its fertile soil,
Their yield surpasses, when the southern wind
Gives way to northern and permits the clouds
