But you, I pray, Touch not the foe who turns him from the fight, A fellow citizen, a foe no more.
But while the gleaming weapons threaten still, Let no fond memories unnerve the arm, (15) No pious thought of father or of kin; But full in face of brother or of sire, Drive home the blade.

Unless the slain be known Your foes account his slaughter as a crime; Spare not our camp, but lay the rampart low And fill the fosse with ruin; not a man But holds his post within the ranks to-day.
And yonder tents, deserted by the foe, Shall give us shelter when the rout is done." Scarce had he paused; they snatch the hasty meal, And seize their armour and with swift acclaim Welcome the chief's predictions of the day, Tread low their camp when rushing to the fight; And take their post: nor word nor order given, In fate they put their trust.

Nor, had'st thou placed All Caesars there, all striving for the throne Of Rome their city, had their serried ranks With speedier tread dashed down upon the foe.
But when Pompeius saw the hostile troops Move forth in order and demand the fight, And knew the gods' approval of the day, He stood astonied, while a deadly chill Struck to his heart -- omen itself of woe, That such a chief should at the call to arms, Thus dread the issue: but with fear repressed, Borne on his noble steed along the line Of all his forces, thus he spake: "The day Your bravery demands, that final end Of civil war ye asked for, is at hand.
Put forth your strength, your all; the sword to-day Does its last work.

One crowded hour is charged With nations' destinies.

Whoe'er of you Longs for his land and home, his wife and child, Seek them with sword.