Thou wert not, Cassius, and thou couldst not be,
Last of the Romans, though thy memory claim
From Brutus his own glory — and on thee
Rests the full splendour of his sacred fame:
Nor he who dared make the foul tyrant quail
Amid his cowering senate with thy name,
Though thou and he were great — it will avail
To thine own fame that Otho's should not fail.
‘ Twill wrong thee not — thou wouldst, if thou couldst feel,
Abjure such envious fame — great Otho died
Like thee — he sanctified his country's steel,
At once the tyrant and tyrannicide,
In his own blood — a deed it was to bring
Tears from all men — though full of gentle pride,
Such pride as from impetuous love may spring,
That will not be refused its offering.