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Be this your genius—to impose
The rule of peace on vanquished foes,
Show pity to the humbled soul,
And crush the sons of pride.'

He ceased; and ere their awe was o'er,
Took up his prophecy once more:
'Lo, great Marcellus! see him tower
With kingly spoils, in conquering power,
The warrior host above!
He in a day of dire debate
Shall 'stablish firm the reeling state,
The Carthaginian bands o'erride,
Break down the Gaul's insurgent pride,
And the third trophy dedicate
To Rome's Feretrian Jove.'
Then spoke Æneas, who beheld
Beside the warrior pace
A youth, full-armed, by none excelled
In beauty's manly grace,
But on his brow was nought of mirth,
And his fixed eyes were dropped on earth:—
'Who, father, he, who thus attends
Upon that chief divine?
His son, or other who descends
From his illustrious line?
What whispers in the encircling crowd!
The portance of his steps how proud!
But gloomy night, as of the dead,
Flaps her sad pinions o'er his head.'
The sire replies, while down his cheek
The teardrops roll apace:
'Ah son! compel me not to speak
The sorrows of our race!
That youth the Fates but just display
To earth, nor let him longer stay: