BOOK VII.
THE BATTLE Ne'er to the summons of the Eternal laws More slowly Titan rose, (1) nor drave his steeds, Forced by the sky revolving, (2) up the heaven, With gloomier presage; wishing to endure The pangs of ravished light, and dark eclipse; And drew the mists up, not to feed his flames, (3) But lest his light upon Thessalian earth Might fall undimmed.
Pompeius on that morn, To him the latest day of happy life, In troubled sleep an empty dream conceived.
For in the watches of the night he heard Innumerable Romans shout his name Within his theatre; the benches vied To raise his fame and place him with the gods; As once in youth, when victory was won O'er conquered tribes where swift Iberus flows, (4) And where Sertorius' armies fought and fled, The west subdued, with no less majesty Than if the purple toga graced the car, He sat triumphant in his pure white gown A Roman knight, and heard the Senate's cheer.
Perhaps, as ills drew near, his anxious soul, Shunning the future wooed the happy past; Or, as is wont, prophetic slumber showed That which was not to be, by doubtful forms Misleading; or as envious Fate forbade Return to Italy, this glimpse of Rome Kind Fortune gave.

Break not his latest sleep, Ye sentinels; let not the trumpet call Strike on his ear: for on the morrow's night Shapes of the battle lost, of death and war Shall crowd his rest with terrors.

Whence shalt thou The poor man's happiness of sleep regain?
Happy if even in dreams thy Rome could see Once more her captain! Would the gods had given To thee and to thy country one day yet To reap the latest fruit of such a love: Though sure of fate to come! Thou marchest on As though by heaven ordained in Rome to die; She, conscious ever of her prayers for thee Heard by the gods, deemed not the fates decreed Such evil destiny, that she should lose The last sad solace of her Magnus' tomb.
Then young and old had blent their tears for thee, And child unbidden; women torn their hair And struck their bosoms as for Brutus dead.
But now no public woe shall greet thy death As erst thy praise was heard: but men shall grieve In silent sorrow, though the victor's voice Amid the clash of arms proclaims thy fall; Though incense smoke before the Thunderer's shrine, And shouts of welcome bid great Caesar hail.
The stars had fled before the growing morn, When eager voices (as the fates drew on The world to ruin) round Pompeius' tent Demand the battle signal.

What! by those So soon to perish, shall the sign be asked, Their own, their country's doom?
Ah! fatal rage That hastens on the hour; no other sun Upon this living host shall rise again.
"Pompeius fears!" they cry.

"He's slow to act; Too 'kind to Caesar; and he fondly rules A world of subject peoples; but with peace Such rule were ended." Eastern kings no less, And peoples, eager for their distant homes, Already murmured at the lengthy war.
Thus hath it pleased the gods, when woe impends On guilty men, to make them seem its cause.
We court disaster, crave the fatal sword.
Of Magnus' camp Pharsalia was the prayer; For Tullius, of all the sons of Rome Chief orator, beneath whose civil rule Fierce Catiline at the peace-compelling axe Trembled and fled, arose, to Magnus' ear Bearing the voice of all.