So the Republic dies! and all my work Is vain; the things I built are shattered now, My task is done, the task I dared not shirk; And I am very tired. Nydia, come! Come as you came that day down the green walk, The day I rode in triumph back to Rome, After the Cimbri had been crushed--and talk, Talk as we talked that day beside the pool, Shadowed by ilex, where the golden hearts Of lilies burned within the water cool,-- Nydia! But she stays not, she departs! The marble seat--you lifted up your face-- I have fought long now. I am weary. Come! Nydia! Nydia! and lead me home! Home! How the Forum blazes in the sun! The Roman faces and the kindly speech; The melon-sellers, proffering to each That comes, ripe, green-streaked melons--What! you shun An old friend, Balbus? No! It was not I! No! by the gods! I never gave consent To those red days of massacre!----They cry! Oh gods! they cry, cry, they are not yet dead! They _will_ not die: they hurl upon my head Curses and prayers! I hear them in my tent! They are not dead! Oh gods! They are not dead! I never gave consent! Still the time slips And Nydia comes not. I am very tired. The things are broken to which I aspired, And you alone are left. Love! She is here Nydia, Nydia.... LUCULLUS DINES-- LUCULLUS DINES-- [59 B. C.] I dine in the Apollo room tonight, With Cicero and Pompey! See to it! Cicero! Pompey! But ten years ago Lucullus was the hero, Conqueror Of Mithridates, Rescuer of Rome! All’s Pompey now; he goes far--and has gone; And, with it all, is just the honest, brave, Young captain that I saw that hot, raw, day; The first day of my shame. Oh gods, gods, gods! Must Rome have always victories, victories, Incredible conquests till the whole world reels, And still thrust traps into my path until I fall at last? When Pompey came I knew. Oh he was kind, quite kind, considerate Of the old bitter man there who had failed, Recalled without a triumph! He was kind In all his splendid, conquering, strength and youth! Yet, I had beaten Mithridates. So Let the old lion growl through teeth once sharp! This sordid squabble of a vulgar crowd Of stiff patricians, ranting demagogues, Serves well for others. I, I have my trees, My cherries, rooted firm in Roman soil, Shedding a delicate whiteness on the hills When spring comes. A far greater triumph that Than all my conquests. Yes, they know me well, These young men, “That old dragon on the hill, Who gives such gorgeous dinners. Gods, his wines! Fit for Apollo!” Yes, an excellent host, Learned in sauces, skilled in oysters, game; Within whose heart no spark of ancient fire Burns on.... Oh Power! Power! Once to lead An army, once again, and see the thick Rain of the Parthian arrows and the blaze As forty brazen cohorts broke the foe!