  AD ATTICUM [CICERO. 48 B. C.] How hot it is! Faint waves of heat steam up From the burnt sand without, like threads of glass, Blurring the vision. In the dark, cool rooms Within, all are asleep, and not a sound Breaks the tense stillness.... Why should I not sleep? This letter here, to Atticus, can wait.... No! I had better write it now, this court Is cool enough, the plashing fountain pleasant, Stylus and tablets on the table there.... Let me begin!... Where did I buy this style? Oh yes, at Patras, where we had to leave Poor Tiro sick—well, he is better now— And, Jupiter be thanked! I have escaped Safely from that accursed province! Gods! Now, even now, the names ring in my brain, The petty lawsuits which I must adjudge, The protests from the people, stricken down Under a shameful load of usury, Oppressed by every Roman thief that crept Into some petty office. Gods, those trials! They made me old before my time. That case Between Valerius and Volusius! And Brutus, the immaculate, with his interest Of forty-eight per cent! What shall I say To Atticus? “Caesar and I are friends.” Or, “Next week I shall sail from Formia And seek out Pompey.” There they stand, gouged plain On the smooth wax. I rub them both out—so! Caesar, which shall I write? I was your friend. Pompey has helped me always. Over all Stands Rome. This war I hate as I hate Hell, And yet must take one side.... You made the war, Caesar ... and the Republic perishes, If you are victor.... That one fact ends all. Rome will be better ruled? There’s something more Than better rule, something for which men die. May I have grace to die so at the end, Grace to pursue my vision to the last, Though all my body is one sweat of blood; Grace to reach up and touch her garment’s hem And see her smile down in that last, black place Where the swords fall. I shall be happy then. All heaven and earth will be repaid to me, In that one glance, before the swords sweep down. Life is a dream and a rapture, life is a voice and a breath, A gust of wind and a darkness, puffed in the face of Death, Life is a treacherous river, a house that sinks in the sand, A gift that poisons the giver, a ring that withers the hand. Yet, when a man is mighty, that dream is more than the truth, That wailing wind in the darkness more bright than the fires of youth, The ring gives wisdom and power, the house stands up like a rock, The river roars from the mountains, and his foemen reel at its shock. These are our mighty fellows, we are akin to these, The men who burn on the deserts, who drown in the pathless seas, Not for gold or for power or gems some king has thieved, But simply to follow a vision, to see a dream achieved! So, though we stand beleaguered, though the foe comes on like the sea, Though slaves fall down as he passes, and helot bend at his knee, Though there is no escaping, though the last hope is gone, Here in the sight of all men we buckle our armor on! Whatever chances, Tullia is safe; I only risk myself ... and so, at last, I shall begin my letter ... yet I wonder If, after this, I shall see Formia Ever again.... No need to think of that! Tullia will be safe ... and Atticus; But, for the rest—I have lost many friends Already.... Bah! Come, let me get to work!... Tullia will be safe.... Hail, Atticus! |
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