Pale with fear Came Cordus, hasting from his hiding place; Quaestor, he joined Pompeius on thy shore, Idalian Cyprus, bringing in his train A cloud of evils.

Through the darkening shades Love for the dead compelled his trembling steps, Hard by the marin of the deep to search And drag to land his master.

Through the clouds The moon shone sadly, and her rays were dim; But by its hue upon the hoary main He knew the body.

In a fast embrace He holds it, wrestling with the greedy sea, And deftly watching for a refluent wave Gains help to bring his burden to the land.
Then clinging to the loved remains, the wounds Washed with his tears, thus to the gods he speaks, And misty stars obscure: "Here, Fortune, lies Pompeius, thine: no costly incense rare Or pomp of funeral he dares to ask; Nor that the smoke rise heavenward from his pyre With eastern odours rich; nor that the necks Of pious Romans bear him to the tomb, Their parent; while the forums shall resound With dirges; nor that triumphs won of yore Be borne before him; nor for sorrowing hosts To cast their weapons forth.

Some little shell He begs as for the meanest, laid in which His mutilated corse may reach the flame.
Grudge not his misery the pile of wood Lit by this menial hand.