Book 4
We yield the western tribes: the east is thine
1
'And all the world lies open to thy march.
'Be generous! blood nor sword nor wearied arm
'Thy conquests bought. Thou hast not to forgive
Aught but thy victory won. Nor ask we much.
'Give us repose; to lead in peace the life
'Thou shalt bestow; suppose these armed lines
'Are corpses prostrate on the field of war,
'Ne'er were it meet that thy victorious ranks
Should mix with ours, the vanquished. Destiny
'Has run for us its course: one boon I beg;
'Bid not the conquered conquer in thy train.'
Such were his words, and Caesar's gracious smile
Granted his prayer, remitting rights that war
Gives to the victor. To th' unguarded stream
The soldiers speed: prone on the bank they lie
And lap the flood or foul the crowded waves.
In many a burning throat the sudden draught
Poured in too copious, filled the empty veins
And choked the breath within: yet left unquenched
The burning pest which, though their frames were full,
Craved water for itself. Then, nerved once more,
Their strength returned. Oh, lavish luxury,
Contented never with the frugal meal!
Oh, greed that searchest over land and sea
To furnish forth the banquet! Pride that joy'st
In sumptuous tables! learn what life requires,
How little nature needs! No ruddy juice
Pressed from the vintage in some famous year,
Whose consuls are forgotten, served in cups
With gold and jewels wrought, restores the spark,
The failing spark, of life; but water pure
And simplest fruits of earth. The flood, the field
Suffice for nature. Ah! the weary lot
Of those who war! But these, their armour laid
Low at the victor's feet, with lightened breast,
Secure themselves, no longer dealing death,
Beset by care no more, seek out their homes.
What priceless gift in peace had they secured!
How grieved it now their souls to have poised the dart
