No remains of the Villa

On his sick-bed, the emperor Tacitus: —
the labours of the war he had to wage
have overburdened his extreme old age:
bed-ridden amid the encampment odious,
in wretched Tyana, — so far away.

His dear Campania now he contemplates:
his garden, the villa, the early morning stroll, —
the life six months ago that cheered his soul.
And in his agony he imprecates
the Senate, the malign Senate of the day.