That spot, those happy heights desireOur sojourn; there, when life shall end,Your tear shall dew my yet warm pyre,Your bard and friend.

O, oft with me in troublous timeInvolved, when Brutus warr'd in Greece,Who gives you back to your own climeAnd your own gods, a man of peace,Pompey, the earliest friend I knew,With whom I oft cut short the hoursWith wine, my hair bright bathed in dewOf Syrian oils, and wreathed with flowers?With you I shared Philippi's rout,Unseemly parted from my shield,When Valour fell, and warriors stoutWere tumbled on the inglorious field:But I was saved by Mercury,Wrapp'd in thick mist, yet trembling sore,While you to that tempestuous seaWere swept by battle's tide once more.