There was a young man going with Marcellus, Brilliant in shining armor, bright in beauty, But sorrowful, with downcast eyes. Aeneas Broke in, to ask his father: “Who is this youth Attendant on the hero? A son of his? One of his children’s children? How the crowd Murmurs and hums around him! what distinction, What presence, in his person! But dark night Hovers around his head with mournful shadow. Who is he, father?” And Anchises answered:-- “Great sorrow for our people! O my son, Ask not to know it. This one fate will only Show to the world; he will not be permitted Any long sojourn. Rome would be too mighty, Too great in the gods’ sight, were this gift hers. What lamentation will the field of Mars Raise to the city! Tiber, gliding by The new-built tomb, the funeral state, bear witness! No youth from Trojan stock will ever raise His ancestors so high in hope, no Roman Be such a cause for pride. Alas for goodness, Alas for old-time honor, and the arm Invincible in war! Against him no one, Whether on foot or foaming horse, would come In battle and depart unscathed. Poor boy, If you should break the cruel fates; if only-- You are to be Marcellus. Let me scatter Lilies, or dark-red flowers, bringing honor To my descendant’s shade; let the gift be offered, However vain the tribute.” So through the whole wide realm they went together, Anchises and his son; from fields of air Learning and teaching of the fame and glory, The wars to come, the toils to face, or flee from, Latinus’ city and the Latin peoples, The love of what would be. There are two portals, Twin gates of Sleep, one made of horn, where easy Release is given true shades, the other gleaming White ivory, whereby the false dreams issue To the upper air. Aeneas and the Sibyl Part from Anchises at the second portal. He goes to the ships, again, rejoins his comrades, Sails to Caieta’s harbor, and the vessels Rest on their mooring-lines. BOOK VII ITALY: THE OUTBREAK OF WAR Here on our shores a woman died, Caieta, Nurse of Aeneas, and her name still guards Her resting-place with honor, if such glory Is comforting to dust.