But Phycus dared Refuse her harbour, and th' avenging hand Left her in ruins.

Thus with gentle airs They glide along the main and reach the shore From Palinurus (2) named; for not alone On seas Italian, Pilot of the deep, Hast thou thy monument; and Libya too Claims that her waters pleased thy soul of yore.
Then in the distance on the main arose The shining canvas of a stranger fleet, Or friend or foe they knew not.

Yet they dread In every keel the presence of that chief Their fear-compelling conqueror.

But in truth That navy tears and sorrow bore, and woes To make e'en Cato weep.
For when in vain Cornelia prayed her stepson and the crew To stay their flight, lest haply from the shore Back to the sea might float the headless corse; And when the flame arising marked the place Of that unhallowed rite, "Fortune, didst thou Judge me unfit," she cried, "to light the pyre To cast myself upon the hero dead, The lock to sever, and compose the limbs Tossed by the cruel billows of the deep, To shed a flood of tears upon his wounds, And from the flickering flame to bear away And place within the temples of the gods All that I could, his dust?
That pyre bestows No honour, haply by some Pharian hand Piled up in insult to his mighty shade.
Happy the Crassi lying on the waste Unburied.

To the greater shame of heaven Pompeius has such funeral.