And yet of all Who noble fell, one only now I sing, Thee, brave Domitius.

(24) Whene'er the day Was adverse to the fortunes of thy chief Thine was the arm which vainly stayed the fight.
Vanquished so oft by Caesar, now 'twas thine Yet free to perish.

By a thousand wounds Came welcome death, nor had thy conqueror power Again to pardon.

Caesar stood and saw The dark blood welling forth and death at hand, And thus in words of scorn: "And dost thou lie, Domitius, there?
And did Pompeius name Thee his successor, thee?
Why leavest thou then His standards helpless ?" But the parting life Still faintly throbbed within Domitius' breast, Thus finding utterance: "Yet thou hast not won Thy hateful prize, for doubtful are the fates; Nor thou the master, Caesar; free as yet, With great Pompeius for my leader still, Warring no more, I seek the silent shades, Yet with this hope in death, that thou subdued To Magnus and to me in grievous guise May'st pay atonement." So he spake: no more; Then closed his eyes in death.
'Twere shame to shed, When thus a world was perishing, the tear Meet for each fate, or sing the wound that reft Each life away.

Through forehead and through throat The pitiless weapon clove its deadly path, Or forced the entrails forth: one fell to earth Prone at the stroke; one stood though shorn of limb; Glanced from this breast unharmed the quivering spear; That it transfixed to earth.