Baring his bosom to the stern platoon:
And parted friends, and pardon'd enemies,
Relinquish'd glory, and forgotten scorn,
Are naught to him—but o'er his war-worn face
A momentary gleam of passion flits—
To think that he who wore that diadem
The second Caesar placed upon his brows,
(No cold inheritance of legal right,
But truly bought by bravery and blood.)
Should die with traitor branded on, his fame.