Whate'er Iberian mines or Tagus bring to day, Or Arimaspians from golden sands May gather, had they seized; still had they thought Their guilt too cheaply sold.

When pledged to them Was the Tarpeian rock, for victory won, And all the spoils of Rome, by Caesar's word, Shall camps suffice them?
Then plebeian limbs On senators' turf took rest, on kingly couch The meanest soldier; and the murderer lay Where yesternight his brother or his sire.
In raving dreams within their waking brains Yet raged the battle, and the guilty hand Still wrought its deeds of blood, and restless sought The absent sword-hilt.

Thou had'st said that groans Issued from all the plain, that parted souls Had breathed a life into the guilty soil, That earthly darkness teemed with gibbering ghosts And Stygian terrors.

Victory foully won Thus claimed its punishment.

The slumbering sense Already heard the hiss of vengeful flames As from the depths of Acheron.