To him was war Grown hateful, and he longed once more to hear The Senate's plaudits; and with eloquent lips He lent persuasion to the weaker cause.
"Fortune, Pompeius, for her gifts to thee Asks this one boon, that thou should'st use her now.
Here at thy feet thy leading captains lie; And here thy monarchs, and a suppliant world Entreats thee prostrate for thy kinsman's fall.
So long shall Caesar plunge the world in war?
Swift was thy tread when these proud nations fell; How deep their shame, and justly, should delay Now mar thy conquests! Where thy trust in Fate, Thy fervour where?
Ingrate! Dost dread the gods, Or think they favour not the Senate's cause?
Thy troops unbidden shall the standards seize And conquer; thou in shame be forced to win.
If at the Senate's orders and for us The war is waged, then give to us the right To choose the battle-field.

Why dost thou keep From Caesar's throat the swords of all the world?
The weapon quivers in the eager hand: Scarce one awaits the signal.

Strike at once, Or without thee the trumpets sound the fray.
Art thou the Senate's comrade or her lord?
We wait your answer." But Pompeius groaned; His mind was adverse, but he felt the fates Opposed his wish, and knew the hand divine.
"Since all desire it, and the fates prevail, So let it be; your leader now no more, I share the labours of the battle-field.
Let Fortune roll the nations of the earth In one red ruin; myriads of mankind See their last sun to-day.

Yet, Rome, I swear, This day of blood was forced upon thy son.
Without a wound, the prizes of the war Might have been thine, and he who broke the peace In peace forgotten.

Whence this lust for crime?
Shall bloodless victories in civil war Be shunned, not sought?
We've ravished from our foe All boundless seas, and land; his starving troops Have snatched earth's crop half-grown, in vain attempt Their hunger to appease; they prayed for death, Sought for the sword-thrust, and within our ranks Were fain to mix their life-blood with your own.
Much of the war is done: the conscript youth Whose heart beats high, who burns to join the fray (Though men fight hard in terror of defeat), The shock of onset need no longer fear.
Bravest is he who promptly meets the ill When fate commands it and the moment comes, Yet brooks delay, in prudence; and shall we, Our happy state enjoying, risk it all?
Trust to the sword the fortunes of the world?
Not victory, but battle, ye demand.
Do thou, O Fortune, of the Roman state Who mad'st Pompeius guardian, from his hands Take back the charge grown weightier, and thyself Commit its safety to the chance of war.
Nor blame nor glory shall be mine to-day.
Thy prayers unjustly, Caesar, have prevailed: We fight! What wickedness, what woes on men, Destruction on what realms this dawn shall bring! Crimson with Roman blood yon stream shall run.
Would that (without the ruin of our cause) The first fell bolt hurled on this cursed day Might strike me lifeless! Else, this battle brings A name of pity or a name of hate.
The loser bears the burden of defeat; The victor wins, but conquest is a crime." Thus to the soldiers, burning for the fray, He yields, forbidding, and throws down the reins.
So may a sailor give the winds control Upon his barque, which, driven by the seas, Bears him an idle burden.