Book 7
She, conscious ever of her prayers for thee
1
Heard by the gods, deemed not the fates decreed
Such evil destiny, that she should lose
The last sad solace of her Magnus' tomb.
Then young and old had blent their tears for thee,
And child unbidden; women torn their hair
And struck their bosoms as for Brutus dead.
E'en now though trembling at the victor's sword,
Though cruel Caesar herald thy defeat,
Yet shall they grieve, while at the Thunderer's throne
They offer incense and the laurel wreath.
Ah, wretched fate! In silence must they groan;
Nor in that theatre which heard thy praise
Proclaim their sorrow for Pompeius dead.
The stars had fled before the growing morn,
When eager voices (as the fates drew on
The world to ruin) round Pompeius' tent
Ask for the signal. What! shall those condemned
To die ere fall of eve, provoke the hour
Of hastening death, demand the fatal doom
Their own, their country's? 'Magnus fears,' they cry,
He's patient of his kinsman, slow to strike,
'And fondly holds beneath his sway the world;
'So dreads a peace.' And kings from Orient lands,
And peoples, eager for their distant homes,
Already murmured at the lengthy war.
Thus has it pleased the gods, when woe impends
On guilty men, to make them seem its cause.
We court disaster, crave the fatal sword.
Of Magnus' camp Pharsalia was the prayer;
For Tullius, of all the sons of Rome
Chief orator, beneath whose civil rule
Fierce Catiline at the peace-compelling axe
Trembled and fled, arose, to Magnus' ear
Bearing the voice of all. To him was war
Grown hateful, and he longed once more to hear
The Senate's plaudits; and with eloquent lips
He lent persuasion to the weaker cause.
Fortune, Pompeius, for her gifts to thee
'Asks this one boon, that thou shouldst use her now.
