No groan nor tear, But solemn grief as for the fates of Rome, Was in his visage, and with mien unchanged He saw Pharsalia's woes, above the frowns Or smiles of Fortune; in triumphant days And in his fall, her master.

The burden laid Of thine impending fate, thou partest free To muse upon the happy days of yore.
Hope now has fled; but in the fleeting past How wast thou great! Seek thou the wars no more, And call the gods to witness that for thee Henceforth dies no man.

In the fights to come On Afric's mournful shore, by Pharos' stream And fateful Munda; in the final scene Of dire Pharsalia's battle, not thy name Doth stir the war and urge the foeman's arm, But those great rivals biding with us yet, Caesar and Liberty; and not for thee But for itself the dying Senate fought, When thou had'st fled the combat.
Find'st thou not Some solace thus in parting from the fight Nor seeing all the horrors of its close?
Look back upon the dead that load the plain, The rivers turbid with a crimson stream; Then pity thou thy victor.

How shall he Enter the city, who on such a field Finds happiness?
Trust thou in Fortune yet, Her favourite ever; and whate'er, alone In lands unknown, an exile, be thy lot, Whate'er thy sufferings 'neath the Pharian king, 'Twere worse to conquer.

Then forbid the tear, Cease, sounds of woe, and lamentation cease, And let the world adore thee in defeat, As in thy triumphs.