Fortune produced three captains.
Enyo, murderous goddess of War,
Crushed each on different battlefields.
Parthia kept Crassus,
In the Libyan Sea lay Pompey (surnamed Magnus)
And Julius -
his blood incarnadined ungrateful Rome.
The earth,
Intolerant of so many tombs together
Divided their ashes.
Such are fame's privileges.
The scene:
Deep in a hollow cleft
Between Neapolis and Puteoli,
A cleft awash with water from Cocytus,
Hot with external exhalations,
Damp with a deadly dew.
No autumn green here,
No green fields of pleasant turf,
No echoing thickets
Or sweet discords of spring song.
But CHAOS,
foul, black, pumice rock,
In triumphant isolation,
And a ring of depressed cypress above.
Father Dis, appearing from below,
Head powdered with white ash
And flames from funeral pyres,
Sardonically to Fortune, winged goddess:
"Divine and human-things-commanding Power,
Hater of all security of power,
Lover of the new, forsaker of Triumphs,
Art thou not crushed
By the weight of Rome?"