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exercise and wrestling (13) send us here Their chosen darlings to await your swords; And scarcely armed for war, a dissonant crowd Barbaric, that will start to hear our trump, Nay, their own clamour. Not in civil strife Your blows shall fall -- the battle of to-day Sweeps from the earth the enemies of Rome. Dash through these cowards and their vaunted kings: One stroke of sword and all the world is yours. Make plain to all men that the crowds who decked Pompeius' hundred pageants scarce were fit For one poor triumph. Shall Armenia care Who leads her masters, or barbarians shed One drop of blood to make Pompeius chief O'er our Italia? Rome, 'tis Rome they hate And all her children; yet they hate the most Those whom they know. My fate is in the hands Of you, mine own true soldiers, proved in all The wars we fought in Gallia. When the sword Of each of you shall strike, I know the hand: The javelin's flight to me betrays the arm That launched it hurtling: and to-day once more I see the faces stern, the threatening eyes, Unfailing proofs of victory to come. E'en now the battle rushes on my sight; Kings trodden down and scattered senators Fill all th' ensanguined plain, and peoples float Unnumbered on the crimson tide of death. Enough of words -- I but delay the fates; And you who burn to dash into the fray, Forgive the pause. I tremble with the hopes (14) Thus finding utterance. I ne'er have seen The mighty gods so near; this little field Alone dividing us; their hands are full Of my predestined honours: for 'tis I Who when this war is done shall have the power O'er all that peoples, all that kings enjoy To shower it where I will. But has the pole Been moved, or in its nightly course some star Turned backwards, that such mighty deeds should pass Here on Thessalian earth? To-day we reap Of all our wars the harvest or the doom. Think of the cross that threats us, and the chain, Limbs hacked asunder, Caesar's head displayed Upon the rostra; and that narrow field Piled up with slaughter: for this hostile chief Is savage Sulla's pupil. 'Tis for you, If conquered, that I grieve: my lot apart Is cast long since. This sword, should one of you Turn from the battle ere the foe be fled, Shall rob the life of Caesar. O ye gods, Drawn down from heaven by the throes of Rome, May he be conqueror who shall not draw Against the vanquished an inhuman sword, Nor count it as a crime if men of Rome Preferred anothe
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