The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter/Chapter 120
CHAPTER THE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTIETH.
“Three chieftains did fortune bring forth, whom the fury of battlesDestroyed; and interred, each one under a mountain of weapons;
The Parthian has Crassus, Pompeius the Great by the watersOf Egypt lies. Julius, ungrateful Rome stained with his life blood.And earth has divided their ashes, unable to sufferThe weight of so many tombs. These are the wages of glory!There lies between Naples and Great Puteoli, a chasmDeep cloven, and Cocytus churns there his current; the vaporIn fury escapes from the gorge with that lethal spray laden.No green in the autumn is there, no grass gladdens the meadow,The supple twigs never resound with the twittering singingOf birds in the Springtime. But chaos, volcanic black bouldersOf pumice lie happy within their drear setting of cypress.Amidst these infernal surroundings the ruler of HadesUplifted his head by the funeral flames silhouettedAnd sprinkled with white from the ashes of corpses; and challengedWinged Fortune in words such as these:“‘Oh thou fickle controller Of things upon earth and in heaven, security’s foeman,Oh Chance! Oh thou lover eternally faithful to change, andPossession’s betrayer, dost own thyself crushed by the powerOf Rome? Canst not raise up the tottering mass to its downfall?Its strength the young manhood of Rome now despises, and staggersIn bearing the booty heaped up by its efforts: behold howThey lavish their spoils! Wealth run mad now brings down their destruction.They build out of gold and their palaces reach to the heavens;The sea is expelled by their moles and their pastures are oceans;They war against Nature in changing the state of creation.They threaten my kingdom! Earth yawns with their tunnels deep drivenTo furnish the stone for their madmen’s foundations; alreadyThe mountains are hollowed and now but re-echoing caverns; While man quarries marble to serve his vainglorious purposeThe spirits infernal confess that they hope to win Heaven!Arise, then, O Chance, change thy countenance peaceful to warlikeAnd harry the Romans, consign to my kingdom the fallen.Ah, long is it now since my lips were with blood cooled and moistened,Nor has my Tisiphone bathed her blood-lusting bodySince Sulla’s sword drank to repletion and earth’s bristling harvestGrew ripe upon blood and thrust up to the light of the sunshine!’