The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter/Chapter 120
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CHAPTER THE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTIETH.
“Three chieftains did fortune bring forth, whom the fury of battles
Destroyed; and interred, each one under a mountain of weapons;
The Parthian has Crassus, Pompeius the Great by the waters
Of Egypt lies. Julius, ungrateful Rome stained with his life blood.
And earth has divided their ashes, unable to suffer
The weight of so many tombs. These are the wages of glory!
There lies between Naples and Great Puteoli, a chasm
Deep cloven, and Cocytus churns there his current; the vapor
In 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 singing
Of birds in the Springtime. But chaos, volcanic black boulders
Of pumice lie happy within their drear setting of cypress.
Amidst these infernal surroundings the ruler of Hades
Uplifted his head by the funeral flames silhouetted
And sprinkled with white from the ashes of corpses; and challenged
Winged 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, and
Possession’s betrayer, dost own thyself crushed by the power
Of Rome? Canst not raise up the tottering mass to its downfall?
Its strength the young manhood of Rome now despises, and staggers
In bearing the booty heaped up by its efforts: behold how
They 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 driven
To furnish the stone for their madmen’s foundations; already
The mountains are hollowed and now but re-echoing caverns;
While man quarries marble to serve his vainglorious purpose
The spirits infernal confess that they hope to win Heaven!
Arise, then, O Chance, change thy countenance peaceful to warlike
And 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 body
Since Sulla’s sword drank to repletion and earth’s bristling harvest
Grew ripe upon blood and thrust up to the light of the sunshine!’
Destroyed; and interred, each one under a mountain of weapons;
The Parthian has Crassus, Pompeius the Great by the waters
Of Egypt lies. Julius, ungrateful Rome stained with his life blood.
And earth has divided their ashes, unable to suffer
The weight of so many tombs. These are the wages of glory!
There lies between Naples and Great Puteoli, a chasm
Deep cloven, and Cocytus churns there his current; the vapor
In 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 singing
Of birds in the Springtime. But chaos, volcanic black boulders
Of pumice lie happy within their drear setting of cypress.
Amidst these infernal surroundings the ruler of Hades
Uplifted his head by the funeral flames silhouetted
And sprinkled with white from the ashes of corpses; and challenged
Winged 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, and
Possession’s betrayer, dost own thyself crushed by the power
Of Rome? Canst not raise up the tottering mass to its downfall?
Its strength the young manhood of Rome now despises, and staggers
In bearing the booty heaped up by its efforts: behold how
They 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 driven
To furnish the stone for their madmen’s foundations; already
The mountains are hollowed and now but re-echoing caverns;
While man quarries marble to serve his vainglorious purpose
The spirits infernal confess that they hope to win Heaven!
Arise, then, O Chance, change thy countenance peaceful to warlike
And 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 body
Since Sulla’s sword drank to repletion and earth’s bristling harvest
Grew ripe upon blood and thrust up to the light of the sunshine!’