See here, a conqueror who shall drive to the lofty 20 Capitol the car of triumph over Corinth, glorious from Achæan slaughter: here one who shall lay Argos in dust, and Agamemnon’s own Mycenæ, ay, and the heir of Æacus, with Achilles’ martial blood in his veins: a Roman’s vengeance for his Trojan grandsires, and for Pallas’ insulted 25 fame. What tongue would leave you unpraised, great Cato, or Cossus, you? or the race of the Gracchi, or those twin thunderbolts of war, the Scipios, Libya’s ruin, or Fabricius, princely in his poverty, or you, Serranus, sowing your own ploughed fields? When, ye Fabii,[234] 30 will panting praise overtake you? You are in truth our greatest, the single saviour of our state by delay. Others, I doubt not, will mould the breathing brass to more flesh-like softness, and spread over marble the look of life. Others will plead better at the bar, will trace with the 35 rod the courses of heaven, and foretell the risings of the stars. Yours, Roman, be the lesson to govern the nations as their lord: this is your destined culture, to impose the settled rule of peace, to spare the humbled, and to crush the proud.” Father Anchises paused; and, as they wondered, went on to say: “See how Marcellus advances in the glory of the general’s spoils, towering with conqueror’s majesty 5 over all the warriors near! When the state of Rome reels under the invader’s shock, he shall stay it; his horse’s hoofs shall trample the Carthaginian and the revolted Gaul; and he shall dedicate the third suit of armour to Quirinus[235] the sire.” Hereupon Æneas, for he saw walking 10 at Marcellus’ side a youth of goodly presence and in gleaming armour, but with little joy on his brow and downcast eyes: “Who, my father, is he that thus attends the warrior’s march? his son, or one of the glorious line of his posterity? What a hum runs through the attendant 15 train! how lofty his own mien! but the shadow of gloomy night hovers saddening round his head.” Father Anchises began, tears gushing forth the while: “Alas, my son! ask not of the heavy grief that those of your blood must bear. Of him the fates shall give but a glimpse to earth, 20 nor suffer him to continue longer. Yes, powers of the sky! Rome’s race would have been in your eyes too strong, had a boon like this been its own forever. What groanings of the brave shall be wafted from Mars’ broad field to Mars’ mighty town! What a funeral, father 25 Tiber, shall thine eyes behold, as thou flowest past that new-built sepulchre! No child of the stock of Ilion shall raise his Latian ancestors to such heights of hope: never while time lasts shall the land of Romulus take such pride in any that she has reared. Woe for the piety, for the 30