Shall Scythian tribes desert their distant north,

And Getae haste to view the fall of Rome,

And I look idly on? As some fond sire,

Reft of his sons, compelled by grief, himself

Marshals the long procession to the tomb,

Thrusts his own hand within the funeral flames,

Soothing his heart, and, as the lofty pyre

Rises on high, applies the kindled torch:

(Editor：method)