And shall this For ever be my lot?
her husbands slain Cornelia ne'er enclose within the tomb, Nor shed the tear beside the urn that holds The ashes of the loved?
Yet for my grief What boots or monument or ordered pomp?
Dost thou not, impious, upon thy heart Pompeius' image, and upon thy soul Bear ineffaceable?
Dust closed in urns Is for the wife who would survive her lord Not such as thee, Cornelia! And yet Yon scanty light that glimmers from afar Upon the Pharian shore, somewhat of thee Recalls, Pompeius! Now the flame sinks down And smoke drifts up across the eastern sky Bearing thine ashes, and the rising wind Sighs hateful in the sail.

To me no more Dearer than this whatever land may yield Pompeius' victory, nor the frequent car That carried him in triumph to the hill; Gone is that happy husband from my thoughts; Here did I lose the hero whom I knew; Here let me stay; his presence shall endear The sands of Nile where fell the fatal blow.
Thou, Sextus, brave the chances of the war And bear Pompeius' standard through the world.
For thus thy father spake within mine ear: 'When sounds my fatal hour let both my sons Urge on the war; nor let some Caesar find Room for an empire, while shall live on earth Still one in whom Pompeius' blood shall run.
This your appointed task; all cities strong In freedom of their own, all kingdoms urge To join the combat; for Pompeius calls.
Nor shall a chieftain of that famous name Ride on the seas and fail to find a fleet.
Urged by his sire's unconquerable will And mindful of his rights, mine heir shall rouse All nations to the conflict.

One alone, (Should he contend for freedom) may ye serve; Cato, none else!' Thus have I kept the faith; Thy plot (3) prevailed upon me, and I lived Thy mandate to discharge.

Now through the void Of space, and shades of Hell, if such there be, I follow; yet how distant be my doom I know not: first my spirit must endure The punishment of life, which saw thine end And could survive it; sighs shall break my heart, Tears shall dissolve it: sword nor noose I need Nor headlong plunge.

'Twere shameful since thy death, Were aught but grief required to cause my own." She seeks the cabin, veiled, in funeral garb, In tears to find her solace, and to love Grief in her husband's room; no prayers were hers For life, as were the sailors'; nor their shout Roused by the height of peril, moved her soul, Nor angered waves: but sorrowing there she lay, Resigned to death and welcoming the storm.
First reached they Cyprus on the foamy brine; Then as the eastern breeze more gently held The favouring deep, they touched the Libyan shore Where stood the camp of Cato.