Their coming conqueror know:
Alcides in his savage chase
Ne’er travelled o’er so wide a space.
What though the brass-hoofed deer he killed,
And Erymanthus’ forest stilled,
And Lerna’s depth with terror thrilled
At twanging of his bow:
Nor stretched his conquering march so far,
Who drove his ivy-harnessed car
From Nysa’s lofty height, and broke
The tiger’s spirit ’neath, yoke.
And shrink we in this glorious hour
From bidding worth assert her power,
Or can our craven hearts recoil
From settling on Ausonian soil?
With priestly garb and olive green?
That reverend beard, that hoary hair
The royal sage of Rome declare,
Who first shall round the city draw
The limitary lines of law,
Called forth from Cures’ petty town
To bear the burden of a crown.
Then he whose voice shall break the rest
That lulled to sleep a nation’s breast,
And sound in languid ears the cry
Of Tullus and of victory.
Then Ancus, all too fain to sail
E’en now before a favouring ale.
Say, shall I show you face to face
The monarchs of Tarquinian race,
And vengeful Brutus, proud to wring
The people’s faces from a king?
He first in consul’s pomp shall lift
The axe and rods, the freeman’s gift,
And call his own rebellious speed
For menaced liberty to bleed.
Unhappy father! howsoe’er
The deed be judged by after days,
His country’s love shall all O’erbear,
And unextinguished thirst of praise.
There move the Decii, Drusus here,
Torquatus too with axe severe,
And great Camillus : mark him show
Rome’s standards rescued from the foe!
But those whom side by side you see
In equal armour bright,
Now twined in bonds of amity
While yet they dwell in night,
Alas! how terrible their strife,
If e’er they win their way to life,
How fierce the shock of war!
This kinsman rushing to the fight
From castellated Alpine height,
That leading his embattled might
From furthest morning-star!
Nay, children, nay, your hate unlearn,
Nor ’gainst your country’s vitals turn
The valour of her sons:
And thou, do thou the first refrain;
Cast down thy weapons on the plain,
Thou, born of Jove’s Olympian strain,
In whom my life-blood runs!
Up Capitol shall drive his ear,
Proud of Achæans slain:
And one Mycenæ shall o’erthrow,
The city of the Atridan foe,
And e’en Æacides destroy,
Achilles’ long-descended boy,
In vengeance for his sires of Troy,
And Pallas’ plundered fane.
Who, might Cato, Cossus, who
Woluld keep your names concealed?
The Gracchi, and the Seipios two,
The levins of the field,
Serranus, o’er his furrow bowed,
Or thee, Fabricius, poor yet proud?
Ye Fabii, must your actions done
The speed of panting praise outrun?
Our greatest thou, whose wise delay
Restores the fortune of the day.
Others, belike, with happier grace
From bronze or stone shall call the face,
Plead doubtful causes, map the skies,
And tell when planets set or rise:
But, Roman, thou, do thou control
The nations far and wide:
Be this thy genius, to impose
The rule of peace on vanquished foes,
Show pity to the humbled soul,
And crush the sons of pride.’
Took up his prohecy 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 Feretrain 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:
With gifts like these for aye to hold,
Rome’s heart had e’en been overblod.
Ah! what a groan from Mars’s plain
Shall o’er the city sound!
How wilt thou gaze on that long train,
Old Tiber, rolling to the main
Beside his new-raised mound!
No youth of Ilium’s seed inspires
With hope as fair his Latian sires:
Nor Rome shall dandle on her knee
A nursling so adorned as he.
O piety! O ancient faith!
O hand untamed in battle seathe!
No foe had lived before his sword,
Stemmed he on foot the war’s red tide
Or with relentless rowel gored
His foaming charger’s side.
Dear child of pity! shouldst thou burst
The dungeon-bars of Fate accurst,
our own Marcellus thou!
Bring lilies her, in handfuls bring:
Their lustrous blooms I fain would fling:
Such honour to a grandson’s shade
By grandsire hands may well be paid:
Yet O ! it ’vails not now!’
The mist-clad region, dim and strange.
So when the sire the son had led
Through all the ranks of happy dead,
And stirred his spirit into flame
At though of centuries of
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