“So the warm blood at once from every part Ran purple poison down, and drained the fainting heart. Blood falls for tears, and o’er his mournful face The ruddy drops their tainted passage trace. Where’er the liquid juices find a way, There streams of blood, there crimson rivers stray; His mouth and gushing nostrils pour a flood, And e’en the pores ooze out the trickling blood. In the red deluge all the parts lie drowned, And the whole body seems one bleeding wound”— and so he passed away. Lucan was interred at Rome in his own garden. An ancient monument in the church of Santo Paulo contains an inscription to his memory, probably placed there by order of Nero, who seems after all to have rendered secret homage to his genius and virtue. The talents of his wife have been highly commended; and it is probable that she assisted him in composing his work. The epic “Pharsalia” is the only poem of Lucan’s that we now possess. Its subject is the civil war between Cæsar and Pompey; and it receives its name from the place at which the decisive battle between the rival commanders was fought. Though inferior to the Æneid, it certainly displays talent of a high order. Critics have differed in their estimate of Lucan. That he has faults, none will deny who are familiar with his tumid style and love of tinsel. On the other hand, energy, exuberant imagination, and a fervent love of liberty, are his peculiar excellences. The defects of the Pharsalia are excusable in a youth of twenty-six. Had the author lived to revise and finish the work, it might have equalled Virgil’s epic. Lucan is partial to the supernatural; dreams, witches, and ghosts, enter freely into his machinery. In the sixth book of the Pharsalia, he makes Pompey’s son consult the witch Erichtho on the eve of the battle. His picture of the weird woman is quoted here as one of the most imaginative passages in the whole range of classical poetry. Erichtho is the type of a class of impostors firmly believed in by the Romans of that day; the powers with which the poet endows her are simply those attributed to her by popular superstition. THE WITCH ERICHTHO. “Whene’er the proud enchantress gives command, Eternal Motion stops her active hand; No more heaven’s rapid cirles journey on, But universal Nature stands foredone; The lazy god of day forgets to rise, And everlasting night pollutes the skies. Jove wonders to behold her shake the pole, And, unconsenting, hears his thunders roll. Now, with a word she hides the sun’s bright face, And blots the wide ethereal azure space: Loosely, anon, she shakes her flowing hair, And straight the stormy lowering heavens are fair: At once she calls the golden light again; The clouds fly swift away, and stops the drizzly rain.