A little stream Scarce trickling through the arid plain he passed, Nor knew 'twas Xanthus: deep in grass he placed, Careless, his footstep; but the herdsman cried "Thou tread'st the dust of Hector." Stones confused Lay at his feet in sacred shape no more: "Look on the altar of Jove," thus spake the guide, "God of the household, guardian of the home." O sacred task of poets, toil supreme, Which rescuing all things from allotted fate Dost give eternity to mortal men! Grudge not the glory, Caesar, of such fame.
For if the Latian Muse may promise aught, Long as the heroes of the Trojan time Shall live upon the page of Smyrna's bard, So long shall future races read of thee In this my poem; and Pharsalia's song Live unforgotten in the age to come.
When by the ancient grandeur of the place The chieftain's sight was filled, of gathered turf Altars he raised: and as the sacred flame Cast forth its odours, these not idle vows Gave to the gods, "Ye deities of the dead, Who watch o'er Phrygian ruins: ye who now Lavinia's homes inhabit, and Alba's height: Gods of my sire Aeneas, in whose fanes The Trojan fire still burns: pledge of the past Mysterious Pallas, (24) of the inmost shrine, Unseen of men! here in your ancient seat, Most famous offspring of Iulus' race, I call upon you and with pious hand Burn frequent offerings.

To my emprise Give prosperous ending! Here shall I replace The Phrygian peoples, here with glad return Italia's sons shall build another Troy, Here rise a Roman Pergamus." This said, He seeks his fleet, and eager to regain Time spent at Ilium, to the favouring breeze Spreads all his canvas.

Past rich Asia borne, Rhodes soon he left while foamed the sparkling main Beneath his keels; nor ceased the wind to stretch His bending sails, till on the seventh night The Pharian beam proclaimed Egyptian shores.
But day arose, and veiled the nightly lamp Ere rode his barks on waters safe from storm.
Then Caesar saw that tumult held the shore, And mingled voices of uncertain sound Struck on his ear: and trusting not himself To doubtful kingdoms, of uncertain troth, He kept his ships from land.
But from the king Came his vile minion forth upon the wave, Bearing his dreadful gift, Pompeius' head, Wrapped in a covering of Pharian wool.
First took he speech and thus in shameless words Commends the murder: "Conqueror of the world, First of the Roman race, and, what as yet Thou dost not know, safe by thy kinsman slain; This gift receive from the Pellaean king, Sole trophy absent from the Thracian field, To crown thy toils on lands and on the deep.
Here in thine absence have we placed for thee An end upon the war.

Here Magnus came To mend his fallen fortunes; on our swords Here met his death.

With such a pledge of faith Here have we bought thee, Caesar; with his blood Seal we this treaty.