  R Rome, for whose haughtier sake proud CÆsar made His legions hers, to win her victories, Denied him when her gods let Casca’s blade Pierce him who learned to make her legions his. Still he is mighty; with unchanging dread Her people murmur for great CÆsar slain; Nor value, at the price of CÆsar dead, Their greater cause lost on Philippi’s plain. If haply there are fields, as some pretend, Beyond the silent Styx, where vaguely grim Souls of dead heroes, shadowy and dim, Awake,—I may find entrance at life’s end, Not as a hero who freed Rome from him, |
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