Twelve years! Twelve years of striving! and at last My power is--secure? Still Pompey lives And has an army and Metellus strives To wipe out his defeats. The net is cast: Cast, and draws ever tighter: and my men Grumble and mutter, near to mutiny. Perpenna stirs up treason: like a fen Of black and quaking marshes, my own camp Boils up all foulness, gapes to swallow me. The black death-chariot waits, the coursers stamp-- Yet I have made a law, have curbed the tribes, Built up a senate, founded schools, withstood For twelve long years the iron arm of Rome. I have not spared my time, my gold, my blood. And now all vanishes in plots and gibes-- I love this warm, brown land; it is my home. And ye…
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