Nor stretched on roses in the myrtle grove,
Nor crowns his days with mirth, his nights with love,
But far removed in thundering camps is[407] found,
His slumbers short, his bed the herbless ground;
In tasks of danger always seen the first,
Feeds from the hedge, and slakes with ice his thirst.
Long must his patience strive with fortune's rage,
And long opposing gods themselves engage;
Must see his country flame, his friends destroyed,
Before the promised empire be enjoyed: