Where now that beauty? where those movements? whereThat colour? what of her, of her is left,Who, breathing Love's own air,Me of myself bereft,Who reign'd in Cinara's stead, a fair, fair face,Queen of sweet arts? but Fate to Cinara gaveA life of little space;And now she cheats the graveOf Lyce, spared to raven's length of days,That youth may see, with laughter and disgust,A fire-brand, once ablaze,Now smouldering in grey dust.What honours can a grateful Rome,A grateful senate, Caesar, giveTo make thy worth through days to comeEmblazon'd on our records live,Mightiest of chieftains whomsoe'erThe sun beholds from heaven on high?They know thee now, thy strength in war,Those unsubdued Vindelici.