Not, as in other fields, By soldiers slain, or captains; here were swept Whole nations to the death; Assyria here, Achaia, Pontus; and the blood of Rome Gushing in torrents forth, forbade the rest To stagnate on the plain.

Nor life was reft, Nor safety only then; but reeled the world And all her manifold peoples at the blow In that day's battle dealt; nor only then Felt, but in all the times that were to come.
Those swords gave servitude to every age That shall be slavish; by our sires was shaped For us our destiny, the despot yoke.
Yet have we trembled not, nor feared to bare Our throats to slaughter, nor to face the foe: We bear the penalty for others' shame.
Such be our doom; yet, Fortune, sharing not In that last battle, 'twas our right to strike One blow for freedom ere we served our lord.
Now saw Pompeius, grieving, that the gods Had left his side, and knew the fates of Rome Passed from his governance; yet all the blood That filled the field scarce brought him to confess His fortunes fled.

A little hill he sought Whence to descry the battle raging still Upon the plain, which when he nearer stood The warring ranks concealed.

Thence did the chief Gaze on unnumbered swords that flashed in air And sought his ruin; and the tide of blood In which his host had perished.

Yet not as those Who, prostrate fallen, would drag nations down To share their evil fate, Pompeius did.
Still were the gods thought worthy of his prayers To give him solace, in that after him Might live his Romans.