Let not Caesar's servile minions
Mock the Lion thus laid low;
'Twas no foeman's arm that felled him�'Twas his own that struck the blow,-
His, who, pillowed on thy bosom,
Turned aside from glory's ray-
His, who, drunk with thy caresses,
Madly threw a world away.
Should the base plebeian rabble
Dare assail my name at Home,
Where my noble spouse, Octavia,
Weeps within her widowed home,
Seek her; say the Gods bear witness-
Altars, augurs, circling wings-
That her blood, with mine commingled.
Yet shall mount the throne of kings.
And for thee, star-eyed Egyptian!
Glorious sorceress of the Nile,
Light the path to Stygian horrors
With the splendours of thy smile.
Give the Caesar crowns and arches,
Let her brow the laurel twine;
I can scorn the Senate's triumphs,
Triumphing in love like thine.
I am dying. Egypt, dying;
Hark! the insulting foeman's cry.
They are coming! quick, my falchion!
Let me front them ere I die.
Ah! no more amid the battle
Shall my heart exulting swell-
Isis and Orisis guard thee!
Cleopatra, Rome, farewell!
