Unto thy will We yield the western tribes: the east is thine And all the world lies open to thy march.
Be generous! blood nor sword nor wearied arm Thy conquests bought.

Thou hast not to forgive Aught but thy victory won.

Nor ask we much.
Give us repose; to lead in peace the life Thou shalt bestow; suppose these armed lines Are corpses prostrate on the field of war Ne'er were it meet that thy victorious ranks Should mix with ours, the vanquished.

Destiny Has run for us its course: one boon I beg; Bid not the conquered conquer in thy train." Such were his words, and Caesar's gracious smile Granted his prayer, remitting rights that war Gives to the victor.

To th' unguarded stream The soldiers speed: prone on the bank they lie And lap the flood or foul the crowded waves.
In many a burning throat the sudden draught Poured in too copious, filled the empty veins And choked the breath within: yet left unquenched The burning pest which though their frames were full Craved water for itself.