A voice proclaimed Mysterious, 'Hold! the fates permit thee not That neck to sever.

Many a death he owes To time's predestined laws ere his shall come; Cease from thy madness.

If ye seek revenge For all the blood shed by your slaughtered tribes to Let this man, Cimbrians, live out all his days.' Not as their darling did the gods protect The man of blood, but for his ruthless hand Fit to prepare that sacrifice of gore Which fate demanded.

By the sea's despite Borne to our foes, Jugurtha's wasted realm He saw, now conquered; there in squalid huts Awhile he lay, and trod the hostile dust Of Carthage, and his ruin matched with hers: Each from the other's fate some solace drew, And prostrate, pardoned heaven.

On Libyan soil (2) Fresh fury gathering (3), next, when Fortune smiled The prisons he threw wide and freed the slaves.
Forth rushed the murderous bands, their melted chains Forged into weapons for his ruffian needs.
No charge he gave to mere recruits in guilt Who brought not to the camp some proof of crime.
How dread that day when conquering Marius seized The city's ramparts! with what fated speed Death strode upon his victims! plebs alike And nobles perished; far and near the sword Struck at his pleasure, till the temple floors Ran wet with slaughter and the crimson stream Befouled with slippery gore the holy walls.
No age found pity men of failing years, Just tottering to the grave, were hurled to death; From infants, in their being's earliest dawn (4), The growing life was severed.