"Others, I know, more tenderly may beat the breathing brass, And better from the marble block bring living looks to pass; Others may better plead the cause, may compass heaven's face, And mark it out, and tell the stars, their rising and their place: 850 But thou, O Roman, look to it the folks of earth to sway; For this shall be thine handicraft, peace on the world to lay, To spare the weak, to wear the proud by constant weight of war." So mid their marvelling he spake, and added furthermore: "Marcellus lo! neath Spoils of Spoils how great and glad he goes, And overtops all heroes there, the vanquisher of foes: Yea, he shall prop the Roman weal when tumult troubleth all, And ride amid the Punic ranks, and crush the rising Gaul, And hang in sire Quirinus' house the third war-taken gear." Then spake Æneas, for he saw following Marcellus near 860 A youth of beauty excellent, with gleaming arms bedight, Yet little glad of countenance with eyes that shunned the light: "O father, who is he that wends beside the hero's hem, His son belike, or some one else from out that mighty stem? What murmuring of friends about! How mighty is he made! But black Night fluttereth over him with woeful mirky shade." Then midst the rising of his tears father Anchises spoke: "O son, search not the mighty woe and sorrow of thy folk! The Fates shall show him to the world, nor longer blossoming Shall give. O Gods that dwell on high, belike o'ergreat a thing 870 The Roman tree should seem to you, should this your gift endure! How great a wail of mighty men that Field of Fame shall pour On Mavors' mighty city walls: what death-rites seest thou there, O Tiber, as thou glidest by his new-wrought tomb and fair! No child that is of Ilian stock in Latin sires shall raise Such glorious hope; nor shall the land of Romulus e'er praise So fair and great a nursling child mid all it ever bore. Goodness, and faith of ancient days, and hand unmatched in war, Alas for all! No man unhurt had raised a weaponed hand Against him, whether he afoot had met the foeman's band, 880 Or smitten spur amid the flank of eager foaming horse. O child of all men's ruth, if thou the bitter Fates mayst force, Thou art Marcellus. Reach ye hands of lily-blooms fulfilled; For I will scatter purple flowers, and heap such offerings spilled Unto the spirit of my child, and empty service do."