Page:The Pharsalia of Lucan; (IA cu31924026485809).pdf/106

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PHARSALIA
Book III
Though grappled, kept asunder. Some, half dead,Plunge in the ocean, gulping down the brine 640Encrimsoned with their blood; some lingering stillDraw their last struggling breath amid the wreckOf broken navies: weapons which have missedFind yet their victims, and the falling steelFails not in middle deep to deal the wound.One vessel circled by Phocæan keelsDivides her strength, and on the right and leftOn either side with equal war contends;On whose high poop while Tagus fighting grippedThe stern Phocæan, pierced his back and breast 650Two fatal weapons; in the midst the steelMeets, and the blood, uncertain whence to flow,Stands still, arrested, till with double courseForth by a sudden gush it drives each dart,And sends the life abroad through either wound.Here fated Telon also steered his ship:No pilot's hand upon an angry seaMore deftly ruled a vessel. Well he knew,Or by the sun or crescent moon, how bestTo set his canvas fitted for the breeze 660To-morrow's light would bring. His rushing stemShattered a Roman vessel: but a dartHurled at the moment quivers in his breast.He falls, and in the fall his dying handDiverts the prow. Then Gyareus, in actTo climb the friendly deck, by javelin pierced,Still as he hung, by the retaining steelFast to the side was nailed. Twin brethren standA fruitful mother's pride; with different fates,But ne'er distinguished till death's savage hand 670Struck once, and ended error: he that lived,
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