Now may th' avenging gods Allot thee, Crastinus, (20) not such a death As all men else do suffer! In the tomb May'st thou have feeling and remembrance still! For thine the hand that first flung forth the dart, Which stained with Roman blood Thessalia's earth.
Madman! To speed thy lance when Caesar's self Still held his hand! Then from the clarions broke The strident summons, and the trumpets blared Responsive signal.

Upward to the vault The sound re-echoes where nor clouds may reach Nor thunder penetrate; and Haemus' slopes (21) Reverberate to Pelion the din; Pindus re-echoes; Oeta's lofty rocks Groan, and Pangaean cliffs, till at their rage Borne back from all the earth they shook for fear.
Unnumbered darts they hurl, with prayers diverse; Some hope to wound: others, in secret, yearn For hands still innocent.

Chance rules supreme, And wayward Fortune upon whom she wills Makes fall the guilt.

Yet for the hatred bred By civil war suffices spear nor lance, Urged on their flight afar: the hand must grip The sword and drive it to the foeman's heart.
But while Pompeius' ranks, shield wedged to shield, Were ranged in dense array, and scarce had space To draw the blade, came rushing at the charge Full on the central column Caesar's host, Mad for the battle.

Man nor arms could stay The crash of onset, and the furious sword Clove through the stubborn panoply to the flesh, There only stayed.