And the storm which closed The main to navies gave them hope of rain; Nor biting frosts they feared, in Libyan clime; Nor suns too scorching in the falling year.
Thus ere they trod the deserts, Cato spake: "Ye men of Rome, who through mine arms alone Can find the death ye covet, and shall fall With pride unbroken should the fates command, Meet this your weighty task, your high emprise With hearts resolved to conquer.

For we march On sterile wastes, burnt regions of the world; Scarce are the wells, and Titan from the height Burns pitiless, unclouded; and the slime Of poisonous serpents fouls the dusty earth.
Yet shall men venture for the love of laws And country perishing, upon the sands Of trackless Libya; men who brave in soul Rely not on the end, and in attempt Will risk their all.

'Tis not in Cato's thoughts On this our enterprise to lead a band Blind to the truth, unwitting of the risk.
Nay, give me comrades for the danger's sake, Whom I shall see for honour and for Rome Bear up against the worst.

But whose needs A pledge of safety, to whom life is sweet, Let him by fairer journey seek his lord.
First be my foot upon the sand; on me First strike the burning sun; across my path The serpent void his venom; by my fate Know ye your perils.

Let him only thirst Who sees me at the spring: who sees me seek The shade, alone sink fainting in the heat; Or whoso sees me ride before the ranks Plodding their weary march: such be the lot Of each, who, toiling, finds in me a chief And not a comrade.