Is't not enough That his Cornelia with dishevelled hair Weeps not beside him at his obsequies, Nor with a last embrace shall place the torch Beneath her husband dead, but on the deep Hard by still wanders ?" Burning from afar He sees the pyre of some ignoble youth Deserted of his own, with none to guard: And quickly drawing from beneath the limbs Some glowing logs, "Whoe'er thou art," he said "Neglected shade, uncared for, dear to none, Yet happier than Pompeius in thy death, Pardon I ask that this my stranger hand Should violate thy tomb.

Yet if to shades Be sense or memory, gladly shalt thou yield This from thy pyre to Magnus.

'Twere thy shame, Blessed with due burial, if his remains Were homeless." Speaking thus, the wood aflame Back to the headless trunk at speed he bore, Which hanging on the margin of the deep, Almost the sea had won.

In sandy trench The gathered fragments of a broken boat, Trembling, he placed around the noble limbs.
No pile above the corpse nor under lay, Nor was the fire beneath.

Then as he crouched Beside the blaze, "O, greatest chief," he cried, Majestic champion of Hesperia's name, If to be tossed unburied on the deep Rather than these poor rites thy shade prefer, From these mine offices thy mighty soul Withdraw, Pompeius.