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Book I
THE CROSSING OF THE RUBICON
9
In sacred grandeur rules the forest still. 160No such repute had Cæsar won, nor fame;But energy was his that could not rest—The only shame he knew was not to win.Keen and unvanquished,[1] where revenge or hopeMight call, resistless would he strike the blowWith sword unpitying: every victory wonReaped to the full; the favour of the godsPressed to the utmost; all that stayed his courseAimed at the summit of power, was thrust aside:Triumph his joy, though ruin marked his track. 170As parts the clouds a bolt by winds compelled,With crack of riven air and crash of worlds,And veils the light of day, and on mankind,Blasting their vision with its flames oblique,Sheds deadly fright; then turning to its home,Nought but the air opposing, through its pathSpreads havoc, and collects its scattered fires.Such were the hidden motives of the chiefs;But in the public life the seeds of warTheir hold had taken, such as are the doom 180Of potent nations: and when fortune pouredThrough Roman gates the booty of a world,The curse of luxury, chief bane of states,Fell on her sons. Farewell the ancient ways!Behold the pomp profuse, the houses deckedWith ornament; their hunger loathed the foodOf former days; men wore attire for damesScarce fitly fashioned; poverty was scorned,Fruitful of warriors; and from all the worldCame that which ruins nations; while the fields 190
- ↑ Cicero wrote thus of Cæsar: 'Have you ever read or heard of a man more vigorous in action or more moderate in the use of victory than our Cæsar?'—'Epp. ad Diversos,' viii. 15.