And reddens the skies with its fire. Showers of blood fall from
heaven

These portents the Deity shortly fulfilled! For now Caesar

Forsook vacillation and, spurred by the love of revenge, sheathed

The Gallic sword; brandished the brand that proclaimed civil
warfare.

There, high in the Alps, where the crags, by a Greek god once
trodden,

Slope down and permit of approach, is a spot ever sacred

To Hercules' altar; the winter with frozen snow seals it

And rears to the heavens a summit eternally hoary,

As though the sky there had slipped down: no warmth from the
sunbeams,

No breath from the Springtime can soften the pile's wintry rigor

Nor slacken the frost chains that bind; and its menacing shoulders

The weight of the world could sustain. With victorious legions

These crests Caesar trod and selected a camp. Gazing downwards