Otho

I. Thou wert not, Cassius, and thou couldst not be, Last of the Romans, though thy memory claim From Brutus his own glory--and on thee Rests the full splendour of his sacred fame: Nor he who dared make the foul tyrant quail Amid his cowering senate with thy name, Though thou and he were great--it will avail To thine own fame that Otho’s should not fail. II. 'Twill wrong thee not—thou wouldst, if thou couldst feel, Abjure such envious fame--great Otho died Like thee--he sanctified his country’s steel, At once the tyrant and tyrannicide, In his own blood—a deed it was to bring Tears from all men—though full of gentle pride, Such pride as from impetuous love may spring, That will not be refused its offering.