EPODE VII. TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE.
His detestation of the civil war carried on the one side by
Brutus and Cassius, and on the other by Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus.
Where are you rushing on with impious guilt,
And hands upon the sheathed swords again;
Is there too little blood profusely spilt,
Of Romans on the land and in the main?
And this—not that our army to the ground,
With flames invidious Carthage should deface;
Or that unconquer'd Britons, tied and bound,
Shou'd up the sacred hill the triumph grace.
But that our Rome, to please the Parthian foe,
By her own prowess shou'd be undermin'd;
A folly neither wolves nor lions know,
Save against beasts of a discordant kind.
Madness or mettle, or does vice prevail!
Give instant answer—what can be the cause!
They're silent, and their cheeks are deadly pale,
As with intense stupidity they pause.
Know then fatality severe, and dread
With conscious guilt of fratricide's our own;
E're since the blood of harmless Rhemus shed,
Was left for his descendants to atone.
