32
PHARSALIA
Book II
Lay deep in every bosom: as when death
Knocks at some door but enters not as yet,
Before the mother calls the name aloud
Or bids her grieving maidens beat the breast,
While still she marks the glazing eye, and soothes
The stiffening limbs and gazes on the face, 30
In nameless dread, not sorrow, and in awe
Of death approaching: and with mind distraught
Clings to the dying in a last embrace.
The matrons laid aside their wonted garb:
Crowds filled the temples—on the unpitying stones
Some dashed their bosoms; others bathed with tears
The statues of the gods; some tore their hair
Upon the holy threshold, and with shrieks
And vows unceasing called upon the names
Of those whom mortals supplicate. Nor all 40
Lay in the Thunderer's fane: at every shrine
Some prayers are offered which refused shall bring
Reproach on heaven. One whose livid arms
Were dark with blows, whose cheeks with tears bedewed
And riven, cried, 'Beat, mothers, beat the breast,
'Tear now the lock; while doubtful in the scales
'Still fortune hangs, nor yet the fight is won,
'You still may grieve: when either wins rejoice.'
Thus sorrow stirs itself.
Meanwhile the men
Seeking the camp and setting forth to war, 50
Address the cruel gods in just complaint.
'Happy the youths who born in Punic days
'On Cannæ'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
Knocks at some door but enters not as yet,
Before the mother calls the name aloud
Or bids her grieving maidens beat the breast,
While still she marks the glazing eye, and soothes
The stiffening limbs and gazes on the face, 30
In nameless dread, not sorrow, and in awe
Of death approaching: and with mind distraught
Clings to the dying in a last embrace.
The matrons laid aside their wonted garb:
Crowds filled the temples—on the unpitying stones
Some dashed their bosoms; others bathed with tears
The statues of the gods; some tore their hair
Upon the holy threshold, and with shrieks
And vows unceasing called upon the names
Of those whom mortals supplicate. Nor all 40
Lay in the Thunderer's fane: at every shrine
Some prayers are offered which refused shall bring
Reproach on heaven. One whose livid arms
Were dark with blows, whose cheeks with tears bedewed
And riven, cried, 'Beat, mothers, beat the breast,
'Tear now the lock; while doubtful in the scales
'Still fortune hangs, nor yet the fight is won,
'You still may grieve: when either wins rejoice.'
Thus sorrow stirs itself.
Meanwhile the men
Seeking the camp and setting forth to war, 50
Address the cruel gods in just complaint.
'Happy the youths who born in Punic days
'On Cannæ'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
