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