Gods of heaven! There stood he, minion to a barbarous king, Nor bearing still the javelin of Rome; But vile in all his arms; giant in form Fierce, brutal, thirsting as a beast may thirst For carnage.

Didst thou, Fortune, for the sake Of nations, spare to dread Pharsalus field This savage monster's blows?
Or dost thou place Throughout the world, for thy mysterious ends, Some ministering swords for civil war?
Thus, to the shame of victors and of gods, This story shall be told in days to come: A Roman swordsman, once within thy ranks, Slave to the orders of a puny prince, Severed Pompeius' neck.

And what shall be Septimius' fame hereafter?
By what name This deed be called, if Brutus wrought a crime?
Now came the end, the latest hour of all: Rapt to the boat was Magnus, of himself No longer master, and the miscreant crew Unsheathed their swords; which when the chieftain saw He swathed his visage, for he scorned unveiled To yield his life to fortune; closed his eyes And held his breath within him, lest some word, Or sob escaped, might mar the deathless fame His deeds had won.

And when within his side Achillas plunged his blade, nor sound nor cry He gave, but calm consented to the blow And proved himself in dying; in his breast These thoughts revolving: "In the years to come Men shall make mention of our Roman toils, Gaze on this boat, ponder the Pharian faith; And think upon thy fame and all the years While fortune smiled: but for the ills of life How thou could'st bear them, this men shall not know Save by thy death.

Then weigh thou not the shame That waits on thine undoing.