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odour tracks the bodies of the slain. Sped from his northern home the Thracian wolf; Bears left their dens and lions from afar Scenting the carnage; dogs obscene and foul Their homes deserted: all the air was full Of gathering fowl, who in their flight had long Pursued the armies. Cranes (29) who yearly change The frosts of Thracia for the banks of Nile, This year delayed their voyage. As ne'er before The air grew dark with vultures' hovering wings, Innumerable, for every grove and wood Sent forth its denizens; on every tree Dripped from their crimsoned beaks a gory dew. Oft on the conquerors and their impious arms Or purple rain of blood, or mouldering flesh Fell from the lofty heaven; or limbs of men From weary talons dropped. Yet even so The peoples passed not all into the maw Of ravening beast or fowl; the inmost flesh Scarce did they touch, nor limbs -- thus lay the dead Scorned by the spoiler; and the Roman host By sun and length of days, and rain from heaven, At length was mingled with Emathia's plain. Ill-starred Thessalia! By what hateful crime Didst thou offend that thus on thee alone Was laid such carnage? By what length of years Shalt thou be cleansed from the curse of war? When shall the harvest of thy fields arise Free from their purple stain? And when the share Cease to upturn the slaughtered hosts of Rome? First shall the battle onset sound again, Again shall flow upon thy fated earth A crimson torrent. Thus may be o'erthrown Our sires' memorials; those erected last, Or those which pierced by ancient roots have spread Through broken stones their sacred urns abroad. Thus shall the ploughman of Haemonia gaze On more abundant ashes, and the rake Pass o'er more frequent bones. Wert, Thracia, thou. Our only battlefield, no sailor's hand Upon thy shore should make his cable fast; No spade should turn, the husbandman should flee Thy fields, the resting-place of Roman dead; No lowing kine should graze, nor shepherd dare To leave his fleecy charge to browse at will On fields made fertile by our mouldering dust; All bare and unexplored thy soil should lie, As past man's footsteps, parched by cruel suns, Or palled by snows unmelting! But, ye gods, Give us to hate the lands which bear the guilt; Let not all earth be cursed, though not all Be blameless found. 'Twas thus that Munda's fight And blood of Mutina, and Leucas' cape, And sad Pachynus, (30) made Philippi pur
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