Page:The Pharsalia of Lucan; (IA cu31924026485809).pdf/56

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PHARSALIA
Book II
Lay deep in every bosom: as when deathKnocks at some door but enters not as yet,Before the mother calls the name aloudOr bids her grieving maidens beat the breast,While still she marks the glazing eye, and soothesThe stiffening limbs and gazes on the face, 30In nameless dread, not sorrow, and in aweOf death approaching: and with mind distraughtClings to the dying in a last embrace.The matrons laid aside their wonted garb:Crowds filled the temples—on the unpitying stonesSome dashed their bosoms; others bathed with tearsThe statues of the gods; some tore their hairUpon the holy threshold, and with shrieksAnd vows unceasing called upon the namesOf those whom mortals supplicate. Nor all 40Lay in the Thunderer's fane: at every shrineSome prayers are offered which refused shall bringReproach on heaven. One whose livid armsWere dark with blows, whose cheeks with tears bedewedAnd 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 menSeeking the camp and setting forth to war, 50Address 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
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