His shade, however, did not rest in Egypt’s embers,

Never could mere ashes hold so great a spirit.

Bursting from the pyre, deserting half-burned limbs

And lowly grave he rises to the Thunderer −

Between the earth and orbit of the moon. Here dwell the

Godlike shades, those guiltless whom an ardent virtue

Has made able to endure the lower ether.

There with orbs eternal he involved his soul.

Ever reach this place. Illuminated here

He apprehends the wandering meteors and stars

Fixed in the heavens, sees our day beneath so great

A night, and laughs to scorn his headless corpse. From here,

Standards, scattered navies on the sea, he settled

Into Brutus’ noble bosom, the avenger

Of this crime, and entered the unconquered Cato’s

Mind. When still the outcome pended dubious −

Not yet had Cato favored Magnus, but as comrade

In the fight he went, moved by the country’s cause

And as a Senate leader; the Emathian slaughter

Turned his heart to Pompey. He aroused his needy

Limbs, returned the cast-off swords to cringing hands.

He waged the civil war not wishing rule, nor fearful

To be taken slave. He nothing did for his

Own cause, all after Magnus’ death was for the sake

Rapid stride engulf those strewn upon the shores,

He sought the secrets of Corcyrae; with a thousand

Ships he took away with him the pieces of

Emathian ruin. Who could think so many craft

Held conquered vessels? They sought Dorida, Malea,

Passageway of shades Taenarus, then Cythera.

Crete recedes astern as north winds drive the ships.

He hugs Dictaea’s shore, waves milder. Now he strikes

It well deserved its pillaging. From there with placid

Breezes he descended, Palinurus, to your

Beaches. History belongs not to Italian

Seas alone. For Africa relates how pleased

The deep a vessel’s billowed sails appeared they held

Their breath; did it bear allies in their troubles or else

Foes? The fearsome victor acted after all

With speed; no ship but he was thought aboard it.

Yet this

From hard Cato. Now Cornelia, after her vain

Prayers had tried to stay the sailors and her stepson

− Might the body not appear, by waves repelled

From Egypt’s shore ?− then, after flames revealed the pyre

Fortune, to have lit my husband’s pyre and spread

Myself on his cold members, cradled him? To burn

My torn out hair? To gather up the limbs of Magnus

Scattered now upon the sea? With tears to flood

Something take from an extinguished mound to place

In temples of the gods? The pyre burns with no

Funereal rite at all; it may be that Egyptian

Hands performed the office, hateful to this shade.

Exposed; more sacred anger lurks in Pompey’s fire.

Shall my fate be always such afflictions? Never

Be allowed to give my husband tomb? And never

Shed tears over a full urn? And yet what is

Do you not carry Pompey closed in your unworthy

Heart, does not his likeness cling deep in the vitals?

Let her search out ashes who plans further life.

And even now the fire, shining from afar

Carries, Magnus, some of you to me. But see,

The flame dies down; so with the rising dawn this smoke

Evaporates and Pompey with it; hateful winds

Unfurl my sails. No dearer to me now is any

The car that wended through our lofty Capitol.

That Magnus now is fallen from my heart. I want him.

Egypt has him. I do not complain to stay

In this hard land; its crime commends those sands. Believe it,

The cause of war throughout the world, your father's standards.

Here are the commands to you that Pompey left

To me: ‘When that doomed hour forges my extinction,

Sons, take up this civil war, nor ever let

Excite in my name crowns or cities bent on their

Own freedom; this force, these arms I do leave to you.

Whichever Pompey undertakes the sea, he shall

Find ships, and our successor will make war with nations

Your spirit and be mindful of your father’s right.

It will be proper to take Cato’s orders only

If he takes the side of liberty.’ I have

Fulfilled my promise to you, Magnus, your commands.

You saw that I, disloyal, should not neglect your words.

But now through senseless chaos, Tartarus, O husband,

If there be such, I will follow you. Unknown

How long until death is delivered; first I will

Watch your wounds and yet not, Magnus, flee to death.

In blows of sorrow let that soul die, wash away

In tears, and never will I seek the sword or noose,

The leap through empty air. It is my shame I cannot

Her head she covered with a mourning veil; resolved

For shadows, in the ship’s deep recesses she sheltered,

Close enfolded. Cherishing her bitter grief

In tears, she loved the sorrow for her husband. Nor did

Nor the rising clamor from that threat; her prayers

Opposed the fearful sailors’. She lay absolute

For death, imploring storms.

In spuming waves the craft

Reached Cypress. Then a calmer east wind ruled the sea.

With fearful presage and distress did Magnus − as he

Now was − look upon his countrymen and comrades

From the shore, and on his brother. Ferried then

At once into the waves: “Where is our parent, brother?

Has Magnus taken all things Roman to the shades?”

He spoke. To whom his brother: “He is lucky who

Was sent by chance to other lands, who only hears

The horror. Brother, I have guilty eyes that saw

Author of his death, but by a king corrupt,

His tenant of the Nile. The gods of courtesy

He trusted and his priceless gift, then fell a victim

To the realm he gave. I saw that mangled breast

Tyrant capable of this. I thought that Caesar

Must have stood beside the Nile. But blood or wounds

Outraged me less than seeing our general’s head

Above, transfixed upon a pike, paraded through the

And to entreat with crime that tyrant’s grace. I know

Not whether Pharian dogs and tearing birds wrench him

Apart, or else the furtive flame we glimpsed may

Have consumed him. But whatever injury

I give up to the gods; what still remains of him

I mourn for.” And young Magnus did not groan or shed

Tears hearing this; with noble piety enraged:

“Dispatch at once a craft from that dry coastline, sailors,

Generals! Never was such prize in civil war,

To salvage the unburied shade and satiate

Our Magnus with the blood of that half man, that tyrant.

Will I not sink into the torpid Mareotis

Taken from its sanctum? Shall not Amasis,

Ripped from his tomb within the pyramids − and all

Those other kings − be floating on the Nile for me?

All burials shall do a penance to you, Magnus,

Now goddess to the nations; sacred Apis will be

Sacrificed on Magnus' holy ashes. I will

Scatter linen-wrapped Osiris to the vulgar,

Pompey’s head I’ll burn above these gods. This land

Of farmers, none remaining for the Nile’s return.

And you alone, my father, will have Egypt, gods

And people gone.” He spoke and forced his ship into

The winds. But Cato soothed his righteous anger while

Air when Magnus’ death was heard. That sorrow had

No precedent from any age as people wept

The great man’s death. But more, for hair undone and loose

Upon her features, drained of tears, Cornelia came

Once they had reached friendly shores she gathered up

The clothes, the standards of a hapless Magnus, and his

Weapons, trappings bossed in gold he wore once and

Embroidered togas, robes seen thrice by mighty Jove.

Magnus ashes in her grief. This fine example

All embraced, and pyres rose on all the shore,

Returning fire to the Thessalian shades.

So too when the Apulian with his fire warms

So too do Garganus and Vultur’s fields and warm

Matinus’ pastures gleam. But to the shade of Magnus

Public clamors that assailed the sky and thrust

Their Pompey to the gods came not more pleasing than

A breast so full of truth. “A citizen,” he said,

“Has died, unequal far to ancestors in knowing

The restraint of law, but helpful in these times

That have no reverence for it at all. His power

To him he firmly stayed a private man; the senate’s

Pilot, but its captain too. At no time did he

Urge the right of war. Those things he wished he had

He also wished that others could withhold from him.

The sword but knew to set it by. He loved, above

The toga, arms, yet armed he loved peace still. It pleased

Him to take power and it pleased him put it down.

Modest, without opulence, his house; not tainted

And honored it, which helped our city much. When Sulla

And when Marius were approved, then died the truth

And faith of liberty. And, Pompey gone, the fiction

Of them perished with the thing itself. None now

No need for senatorial façade. O happy

He who conquered met his final day, confronted

Evil in those searching swords of Egypt. He might

Still have lived under his kinsman. Man's best lot

Is the next. And so with me, if I fall into

Foreign hands, give Iuba just the same. I do not

Scruple to be slave so that I serve with severed

Head.” These words brought honor to the noble shade

Of the general.

Meanwhile discord shook the camps.

With Magnus’ funeral the people tired of war.

Tarchondimotus led a move to quit the army;

Cato followed as he fled with mustered ships.

Never peaceful, are you off to plunder seas

Again? Returned to piracy with Magnus gone?"

He looks out on the men, united in their haste.

His mind on flight, one of them spoke this to the leader:

War brought us to arms and to his party. He lies

Dead whom all the world preferred to peace. Our cause

Is dead. Permit us our deserted lands and gods ,

And homes, the sight again of our sweet sons. What end of

Or Pompey? Our time of life has passed, let death

In safety come, let our old age gaze on its rightful

Flames. A civil war can barely offer graves

To conquered generals. We fear no barbarian rule;

A Scythian yoke; I am a citizen beneath

The toga’s law. A second after Magnus lives;

He now will be my first though highest honors will

Be paid the sacred shade. I shall obey whatever

War I followed just for you, now I will follow

Fate. No hope, no license for good fortune now,

For all our fortune comes from Caesar. Victory

Has crushed Emathian iron, torn faith from the wretched.

Civil war is crime with Pompey dead, an honor

While he was alive. Then, Cato, if you follow

Always right and country, let us seek the standards

Of a Roman consul.” So he spoke and leapt

The governance of Rome seemed finished as the people,

Wanting servitude, seethed on the shore. The leader’s

Voice erupted from that solemn heart: “And you, lads,

Did you fight for that same cause? Were you Pompeians

Soldiers? So, you strive now for no country? So, you

Live and die for self not general? So, none

To gain a world for? So, though safe to conquer for

Yourself you fly from war? And now you seek a yoke

Yet now is danger's cause most worthy among men.

If Pompey used your blood too freely, do not therefore

Now refuse your country throats and swords − our freedom

Near. Now fortune leaves one lord from three. For shame!

The law. Go, slackers, scorn that gift of Ptolemy

And spurn your arms. Who ever would suppose your hands

Could harm? With ease he will believe you turned your backs,

Believe you first deserted from Emathian

Be your judge, not taken by his arms or sieges.

O base slaves, you go from your first master to

His heir. But why not choose to merit more than life

And pardon? Magnus’ hapless wife, let her be carried

His children. Go beyond the gift of Ptolemy.

More, he who bears my head off to the hated tyrant

Gives it for no small reward. These lads will know

By my neck’s price that they did well to follow me.

Desertion is a crime of cowards.” Thus he spoke,

His speech recalling all ships from the deep. Much as

A swarm of bees, forgetful of their hive, abandon

The exhausted wax, their wings not linked in flight,

Thyme. But when the Phrygian cymbal sounds they quit

Escape, resume the task of floral labor, love of

Gathered honey, making glad a shepherd in

Hyblaean fields, the riches of his lodge preserved.

Was implanted in the men, and then he strove

To settle with war’s steady labor minds unused

To quiet. First he tires his soldiers digging seashore

Sand. The next task, Cyrene’s walls and ramparts; Barred,

On the conquered stops with conquest. Then he chose

To seek out Iuba’s land beside the Libyan sea,

But nature thwarted his approach between the Syrtes -

That place daring only hopes that courage can

It left the Syrtis doubtful sea or land. It neither

Takes the water’s depths nor yet defends itself

Against the ocean. But a site ambiguous

It lies, impassable. Its sea is fractured into

Wave on wave the battered shores resound. So nature

Left as worthless this creation of itself,

To no use fit. Or once perhaps the Syrtis was more

Filled with seas, swam deeper; but the rabid Titan,

The nearby waters of the burning zone. And now

The sea does battle with a desiccating sun.

One day, when the destroyer time will move these rays

More close, then Syrtis will be land; for even now

To perish widely − is but scant. As soon as all

The navy’s weight drove out with oars upon the ocean

Black south wind with constant downpour raged, ferocious

In its realm; with whirlwind it defends the seas

Waves and broke the sea with risen land. If wind

Caught standing masts the sail was torn from sailors’ hands,

Slack halyards vain to keep this south blast from their sails.

The canvas, sweeping past the ship’s length, bellies out

On the highest yard was finished, hurled aside

From off the naked rigging. Ships in deeper water

Fared the best, exposed to seas more regular.

Some, lightened with cut mast, yield to the howling gale;

Triumphant seizes them and flings them on the hardy

South wind. Some desert the shallows, and now land

That interrupts the deep attacks them. Dubious fate:

One portion of the craft aground, the other floats.

Land, raging, forms in opposition. Southerlies drive up

Large spumes yet spare these heaps of sand. And, far from any

Fields, upon the ocean’s back a mound of dry

Sand rises, free from water; wretched sailors stand

Trap a portion of them; most among the rank

Of ships and helms went on in safety. Finding pilots

Expert in the place, they reached the lazy marsh

Of Triton safe. Here is the god, it’s said, whose murmurs

This place Athena loves as well; born from her father’s

Head she came here, first of Libya’s lands, for it is

Close to heaven as the heat itself shows; in the

Quiet pond she sees her face. She sets her feet

Herself as Triton’s daughter. Close, the silent river

Lethe flows; you come, it’s said, and draw from hell

Oblivion. Here was the sleepless serpent’s watch,

The garden of those poor Hesperides, now stripped

The hoary past by calling poets to the truth:

A golden wood there was, with riches heavy, boughs

In yellow fruit. This shining grove’s custodians

A virgin chorus. Doomed to sleeplessness a snake

Alcides took from the trees their prize, its labors

From that forest, made those branches poor and light.

To Argos’ tyrant he returned the gleaming fruit.

Repelled from their planned route, his ships forced from the Syrtes,

Waves, remaining on the better shores of Libya.

Yet Cato’s manliness, impatient of delay

And trusting arms dared send the army into unknown

Realms, and marching overland bypassed the Syrtes.

They hoped that rain would help suppress excessive heat

That neither sun nor bitter cold would make their route

Extreme, that here the Libyan clime and there the winter

Yield a softer year. And thus, about to enter

My camp were pleased with but a single hope, to die

With neck unshackled, now prepare your minds for work

Of highest courage, greatest pains. We rush upon a

Barren stretch, a world consumed, too much of Titan,

Snakes. A rugged path. If any are inclined

To spurn evasion and to go - for law and love

Of fallen fathers - let them pass through Libya's middle

And attempt a place impassable. I have

Hiding my own fear. Let those be comrades whom these

Dangers motivate, who think it fine and Roman

To endure the very worst − and I a witness.

Soldiers who want guarantees of health, who revel

Easier path. When I shall enter first, set first

Print on the dust, let the encircling heat beset me,

Let snakes venomous arise, forewarning in my

Fate your dangers. Let him thirst who sees me drink,

I should go astride before the crowd − if any

Difference between the general and the soldier

Should be noted. Snake, thirst, heat, and sand the pleasures

Be of valor; patience joys in hardship; courage

Such swarms of evil only Libya bring that men

Were wise to flee her.” So did he inflame with courage

Their pale spirits and with love of hardships. So he

Chose a journey unretraceable upon

In lowly tomb. For Libya stole the fate of Cato,

Now at rest. If you prefer to credit fame

Entirely, Libya is a third of everything,

But should you follow wind and sky it is a part

Northern Tanais from farthest Cadiz. Europe

Parts from Libya here, where curving shores made space

For sea. But Asia by itself encompasses

More of the world, for though the other two send forth

The north upon its right, and, stretching east, the south

Wind is its own. What land in Libya is fertile

Lies upon its west, but even this is not

Refreshed by streams. From rare north winds come showers in the

By no riches spoiled, no brass, no gold is smelted

There; the earth is clean, clods pure and deep. The wealth

Of Mauritanians is woods, whose use they do

Not know. Content, they lived in cedar fronds enshadowed.

Tables and rare foods at earth’s extreme.

But any

Region near the shifting Syrtis lies beneath

An endless day, a place of burnt up air, crops scorched.

The grape is plagued with dust, no root to hold the crumbling

Of this land is in Jove’s care. In that place nature

Lies inert and feels no passing year in changeless

Sands. Slack as it is, the earth at times will send

Out shoots that Nasamonians gather − hardy, naked

Barbarians sustain them with their mishaps on

The Syrtis. For this scavenger upon the sandy

Shore stands by; he knows the price of every ship

Docked in his port. Thus Nasamonians foster commerce

Ordered Cato there, but his young men, disdaining

Winds and braving storms, endured on land the terrors

Proper to a sea. For on dry shores, still harsher

Than mid ocean, Syrtis grabs the Southerlies −

With no ridges, Libya cannot quell or split them

To reduce tornadoes into soothing breezes.

Here no woods to stop and weary them with shaking

Ancient oaks. The whole earth suffers, and in open

A cloud, but not of showers, driven round with whirling

Violent dust. A great part of the land is lifted

In an overhanging vortex – and no respite.

Poor, the Nasamonian sees his little world

The Garamantians stripped bare. No higher will flames

Draw things seized, and just so far as they invade

And mar the day with smoke so here the air with dust.

Likewise, more violent than expected this gale falls

Reeling as the sand is snatched from underfoot.

The land would splinter and the earth itself be moved

If Libya were craggy, solid and substantial,

Firm in weight, and it had shut the South Wind in its

So easily − no place resisting − all holds firm.

The deep earth stands unmoved because the surface flees.

With violent action this blast hurled and hoisted shields

And spears and helmets held by men, dispersing these

Remote and strange such marvels came: arms rain from heaven

Terrifying folk who think them torn from hands

And sent by gods. Thus, surely, on the sacrificing

Numa fell those shields that chosen noble youth

The people who had owned our sacred shields. So, as the

South wind churns its circles Roman lads lay flat,

In fear of being ripped away. They clutched their clothes,

Hands clenched the land. Not weight alone but grappling kept them

Great heaps of sand and cover men with dirt. The soldiers

Scarce were able to lift up their limbs so choked

With clinging dust. A large mound fettered even those

Who stood amid the flowing sand, it held them fast

Wind dislodged stones and flung them far and wide. Ills only

To be wondered at: that those who cannot see

Their homes can watch the ruins of them falling. Every

Track was hid, no landmark but the heavens’ lights.

Nor did the limits of the sky that covered Libya

Show the well known stars, for many hid beneath

The margin of the land.

When heat relaxed the air

Which wind had twisted and inflamed the day, then bodies

From far off they glimpsed a rivulet of water

Which one soldier barely managed to scrape off

The sand into his helmet. This he offered to

The general. All their throats were scaled with dust. He held

Soldier,” he said, “did you think in all this crowd

That it was I lacked courage? Do I seem unequal

To this first heat of the day? How much are you

More worthy of the pain to drink while others thirst.

Sufficed them all the same. They found a temple, kept by

Backward Garamantes and the only one

In Libya. There bides, they say, the future-seeing

Jupiter but neither wielding bolts nor featured

The Libyan nations place no rich shrines here, no altars

Shining with gems from the east. So − even though to

Ethiopians and wealthy Arabs, and to

People of the Indies, Ammon Jupiter

Through many years no riches violated temples

That were his; a god observing ancient customs,

He defends his shrine from any gold of Rome.

The woods themselves prove deities live there; through all

From burning Berenice to cooler Leptis never

Knowing any leaf. This grove was made by Ammon.

Woods are caused in this place by a stream that binds

The crumbling earth, its water joins obedient sand.

Stands at the middle. Tree will barely shade its trunk,

So small the shadow cast. It’s known that here the circle

Of the upper solstice cuts the center of

Our constellations' orbit. No rays slant in passing,

Aries give its hours to Libra, nor does Virgo

Order gentle Pisces to descend. There Chiron

Stands with Gemini, the burning Crab is as

The rainy Capricorn, and Leo does not rise

Caught under Libyan fire your shade falls to the south,

Ours north. The small bear slowly sets while you, dry wagon,

Would plunge to the deep. You have no stars above

That do not touch the sea; both poles are far, and flight

They stood before the gates, those whom the East had sent.

From horn-crowned Jove they sought their destiny, but for

The Latin general they made way. All prayed that Cato

Might interrogate this Libyan god and try

Was the greatest advocate for searching in the

Voice of god for things to come: “The fortune of our

Route,” he said, “and chance has worked this presence, offered

Counsel from so great a god. We must use such a

War. To whom more than to sacred Cato should I

Think the gods will prophesy? Your life has been

Set surely on supernal law, on loving god.

And see! The chance to speak with Jove is granted you.

Future conduct of our land. Will people have

Their rights by law or will these vanish in the war.

A lover always of hard virtue, fill your heart

With his celestial voice, seek where is virtue, beg

Instructed by a quiet mind, from deep within his

Breast poured out these solemn words: “What, Labienus,

Do you bid me ask him? Whether I, in arms

And free, should sooner lie in death than suffer tyrants?

Define us? Whether a good man is to be harmed

By any force? If fortune lose all threat in virtue's

Presence? Does desire for noble things suffice?

Is ever honesty improved by its success?

Any deeper. Even when their shrine is silent

We cling to the gods, do nothing but their will.

Divinity need raise no voice; at birth our author

Spoke whatever we should know. He will not choose

Truth in this dust. The place for god is land and sea,

Wherever air and sky and virtue is. Why seek

Beyond that? Jupiter is what you see and touch.

The doubtful, those that always fear some ill to be,

But I am sure of death. It is for both the coward

And the brave to die, and there enough for Jove

To tell.” He spoke and left the altar with the temple's

Fame intact, and he left Ammon to his people,

First before his panting soldiers'

Faces, bearing spear in hand, he led and showed

How to endure what hardships he could not command.

Not ever carried resting on his soldiers’ necks,

Nor in a carriage. Most in need of sleep and last

And needy lads attend their thirst, he stands while camp

Attendants drink. If by true good great fame is won,

If quite distinct from its success is virtue, then

What we praise in ancestors was fortune only.

I would prefer he lead this triumph over Libya

And the Syrtes than that Pompey’s carriage mount

The capitol three times, than that Jugurtha’s neck

Be broken. Here is our country‘s rightful parent

It never will cause shame to swear, and him you might −

If ever you shall stand with unyoked neck − for once

Create a god. Now came a heat more burdensome;

They trod a land past which the gods have made for man

Graced the sand and copious of water, but

A crowd of serpents held it, hardly big enough

For them, Dry asps along the edge, snakes thirsty and

Provoking thirst within. The leader, seeing they

Appearance, soldiers, it is safe to draw this water.

Serpents’ toxic principle must touch the blood,

The poison in their bite alone, death only from

Their teeth and not in cups.” He spoke and drew this doubtful

Stream from which he took the water first. How Libyan

Air should fill with plagues, or be in deaths so ripe,

Why nature mixed pernicious secrets in the earth,

It is not ours to know. But common tales have long

At Libya’s most outer bank admits an ocean

Heated by the sun, lie parched the wide fields of

Medusa, Phorcys’ daughter. Overhead no leafy

Groves, no gentle furrow, but on ragged rocks

From that body first drew deadly scourges. From her

Throat, their tongues pulsating sibilance, came serpents

Pouring out their hisses and loosed down her spine

Like woman’s tresses, struck the neck and brought joy to

And viper’s poison flowed in combing of that hair.

Calamitous Medusa has these snakes, and all

May gaze at them unharmed. But he who looks directly

In her eye has suffered death before he even

A wavering fate preceding dread; limbs perish but the

Soul remains, and shades not issued forth grow hard

Within the bone. Eumenides make madness only

With their hair, and Cerebrus abates his noise while

Upon the conquered hydra. Phorcys, her own father,

Feared this monster, so did Ceto, second power

Of the sea, as did her sister gorgons. Sky and

Sea she threatened with strange torpor, and would sheath

And suddenly; beasts clung to rocks. All colonists

Near Ethiopia grew stiff as marble. Not one

Creature could endure to look, and streaming backward

Even serpents on the gorgon shunned her face.

Him to rock; and once, when all the gods feared giants

Standing on their serpent feet, she raised up mountains on

Phlegraeus, and in Pallas’ breast this gorgon made

An end to heaven’s mighty war. Thereafter wings

From that golden storm − Arcadian maker of the

Lyre and wrestlers’ oil. He suddenly, in flight,

Upraised the scimitar of Mercury, a blade

Red with another monster’s blood – for he had killed

Brought assistance to her airborn brother, but she

Claimed for that the monster’s head. She bade him look

To Phoebus’ rising at the end of Libyan land,

Face turned away from furrows of the gorgon’s realm.

That he might view stone-rendering Medusa in it.

He, about to drag her to eternal sleep,

Disrupts her slumbers only partly. Vigilant

The hair defends her head in strands of outstretched serpents.

Rules him as he falters, face aside; his sister

Guides the trembling hand, the blade of Mercury,

Demolishing that massive serpent-bearing neck.

And then how looked this gorgon face with such a wound from

Could I reckon that its mouth exhaled? How much

Of death poured from its eyes? Not even Pallas looked,

And Perseus’ face, albeit turned aside, had frozen

Had not Pallas spread the gorgon’s heavy hair

The gorgon and fled, winged, into the sky. He thought

his route in cutting through the heavens shorter if he

Overflew all Europe’s cities; Pallas bade him

Not to harm the fruitful land, to spare its folk;

His wings turned west and over Libya, unsown

And open to the stars and Phoebus. There the orbit

Of the sun subdues and burns the soil. No land

Where shade falls higher into heaven and obstructs

Curve, she runs straight through the zodiac, not swerving

Either north or south of earth’s cast umbra. Barren

Is that land, its fields replete in no good thing,

But it could drink Medusa’s dripping, poisonous rot,

Which heat empowered, baking still the crumbling sands.

Decay, which here and soon that head spawned in the dust,

Now raised the drowsy asp with swollen neck. More richly

Did that blood, those drops of thickened poison, fall

Heat it travels to no cold realm willingly;

It spreads its length through sands up to the Nile. But which

Of us is shamed by gaining wealth? For that we come and

Seek the Libyan death to make asps merchandise.

Allows no wretch to keep his blood. Cherysdros

Too was born and lives upon the shifting Syrtis;

Chelydri on its foaming track; and Cenchris ever

Gliding straight ahead and known for varied painting

Its small dyed spots. Identical in color to the

Burned up sand, an Ammodytes lies unseen.

The twisting spine too of the wandering Cerastes.

The Scytale which uniquely leaves its sheddings

Amphisbaena, moving with twin heads. The Natrix,

Watery intruder; Iaculi, which fly;

Pareas whose tail cuts a sulcus as it goes;

With spewing mouth distending, greedy Prester; Seps too,

Hisses, frighting other creatures, harmful well