Otho.

A poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley

1.
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.

2.
'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.

NOTE:
_13 bring cj. Garnett; buy 1839, 1st edition; wring cj. Rossetti.

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