Pharsalia [Civil War] | Page 3

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Pharsalia (aka "The Civil War")
by
Lucan (Marcus Annaeus Lucanus) A.D. 39 - A.D. 65

Originally written in Latin, approximately A.D. 61-65, by the Roman
poet Lucan, and probably left unfinished upon his death in A.D. 65.
Although the work has been generally known through most of history
as the "Pharsalia", modern scholarship tends to agree that this was not
Lucan's choice for a title.
This electronic edition was edited, proofed, and prepared by Douglas B.
Killings ([email protected]), May 1996.

BOOK I
THE CROSSING OF THE RUBICON
Wars worse than civil on Emathian (1) plains, And crime let loose we
sing; how Rome's high race Plunged in her vitals her victorious sword;
Armies akin embattled, with the force Of all the shaken earth bent on
the fray; And burst asunder, to the common guilt, A kingdom's compact;
eagle with eagle met, Standard to standard, spear opposed to spear.
Whence, citizens, this rage, this boundless lust To sate barbarians with
the blood of Rome? Did not the shade of Crassus, wandering still, (2)
Cry for his vengeance? Could ye not have spoiled, To deck your
trophies, haughty Babylon? Why wage campaigns that send no laurels
home? What lands, what oceans might have been the prize Of all the
blood thus shed in civil strife! Where Titan rises, where night hides the
stars, 'Neath southern noons all quivering with heat, Or where keen

frost that never yields to spring In icy fetters binds the Scythian main:
Long since barbarians by the Eastern sea And far Araxes' stream, and
those who know (If any such there be) the birth of Nile Had felt our
yoke. Then, Rome, upon thyself With all the world beneath thee, if
thou must, Wage this nefarious war, but not till then.
Now view the houses with half-ruined walls Throughout Italian cities;
stone from stone Has slipped and lies at length; within the home No
guard is found, and in the ancient streets so Scarce seen the passer by.
The fields in vain, Rugged with brambles and unploughed for years,
Ask for the hand of man; for man is not. Nor savage Pyrrhus nor the
Punic horde E'er caused such havoc: to no foe was given To strike thus
deep; but civil strife alone Dealt the fell wound and left the death
behind. Yet if the fates could find no other way (3) For Nero coming,
nor the gods with ease Gain thrones in heaven; and if the Thunderer
Prevailed not till the giant's war was done, Complaint is silent. For this
boon supreme Welcome, ye gods, be wickedness and crime; Thronged
with our dead be dire Pharsalia's fields, Be Punic ghosts avenged by
Roman blood; Add to these ills the toils of Mutina; Perusia's dearth; on
Munda's final field The shock of battle joined; let Leucas' Cape Shatter
the routed navies; servile hands Unsheath the sword on fiery Etna's
slopes: Still Rome is gainer by the civil war. Thou, Caesar, art her prize.
When thou shalt choose, Thy watch relieved, to seek divine abodes, All
heaven rejoicing; and shalt hold a throne, Or else elect to govern
Phoebus' car And light a subject world that shall not dread To owe her
brightness to a different Sun; All shall concede thy right: do what thou
wilt, Select thy Godhead, and the central clime Whence thou shalt rule
the world with power divine. And yet the Northern or the Southern
Pole We pray thee, choose not; but in rays direct Vouchsafe thy
radiance to thy city Rome. Press thou on either side, the universe
Should lose its equipoise: take thou the midst, And weight the scales,
and let that part of heaven Where Caesar sits, be evermore serene And
smile upon us with unclouded blue. Then may all men lay down their
arms, and peace Through all the nations reign, and shut the gates That
close the temple of the God of War. Be thou my help, to me e'en now
divine! Let Delphi's steep her own Apollo guard, And Nysa keep her
Bacchus, uninvoked. Rome is my subject and my muse art thou!
First of such deeds