For thee alone, Magnus, he durst not fail to find a tear: He, Caesar, who with mien unaltered spurned The Roman Senate, and with eyes undimmed Looked on Pharsalia's field.

O fate most hard! Didst thou with impious war pursue the man Whom 'twas thy lot to mourn?
No kindred ties No memory of thy daughter and her son Touch on thy heart.

Didst think perchance that grief Might help thy cause 'mid lovers of his name?
Or haply, moved by envy of the king, Griev'st that to other hands than thine was given To shed the captive's life-blood?
and complain'st Thy vengeance perished and the conquered chief Snatched from thy haughty hand?
Whate'er the cause That urged thy grief, 'twas far removed from love.
Was this forsooth the object of thy toil O'er lands and oceans, that without thy ken He should not perish?
Nay! but well was reft From thine arbitrament his fate.

What crime Did cruel Fortune spare, what depth of shame To Roman honour! since she suffered not, Perfidious traitor, while yet Magnus lived, That thou should'st pity him! Thus by words he dared, To gain their credence in his sembled grief: "Hence from my sight with thy detested gift, Thou minion, to thy King.

Worse does your crime Deserve from Caesar than from Magnus' hands.
The only prize that civil war affords Thus have we lost -- to bid the conquered live.
If but the sister of this Pharian king Were not by him detested, by the head Of Cleopatra had I paid this gift.
Such were the fit return.