BOOK VIII.
DEATH OF POMPEIUS.
Now through Alcides'(1) pass and Tempe's groves Pompeius, aiming for Haemonian glens And forests lone, urged on his wearied steed Scarce heeding now the spur; by devious tracks Seeking to veil the footsteps of his flight: The rustle of the foliage, and the noise Of following comrades filled his anxious soul With terrors, as he fancied at his side Some ambushed enemy.

Fallen from the height Of former fortunes, still the chieftain knew His life not worthless; mindful of the fates: And 'gainst the price he set on Caesar's head, He measures Caesar's value of his own.
Yet, as he rode, the features of the chief Made known his ruin.

Many as they sought The camp Pharsalian, ere yet was spread News of the battle, met the chief, amazed, And wondered at the whirl of human things: Nor held disaster sure, though Magnus' self Told of his ruin.

Every witness seen Brought peril on his flight: 'twere better far Safe in a name obscure, through all the world To wander; but his ancient fame forbad.
Too long had great Pompeius from the height Of human greatness, envied of mankind, Looked on all others; nor for him henceforth Could life be lowly.

The honours of his youth Too early thrust upon him, and the deeds Which brought him triumph in the Sullan days, His conquering navy and the Pontic war, Made heavier now the burden of defeat, And crushed his pondering soul.