The Scipios' worth, those thunderbolts of war, The double bane of Carthage? Who can see, Without esteem for virtuous poverty, Severe Fabricius, or can cease to admire The ploughman consul in his coarse attire? Tired as I am, my praise the Fabii claim; And thou, great hero, greatest of thy name, Ordained in war to save the sinking state, And, by delays, to put a stop to fate! Let others better mould the running mass } Of metals, and inform the breathing brass, } And soften into flesh a marble face; } Plead better at the bar; describe the skies, And when the stars descend, and when they rise. But, Rome! 'tis thine alone, with awful sway, } To rule mankind, and make the world obey, } Disposing peace and war thy own majestic way; } To tame the proud, the fettered slave to free:-- These are imperial arts, and worthy thee." He paused--and, while with wondering eyes they viewed The passing spirits, thus his speech renewed:-- "See great Marcellus! how, untired in toils, He moves with manly grace, how rich with regal spoils! He, when his country (threatened with alarms) Requires his courage and his conquering arms, Shall more than once the Punic bands affright; Shall kill the Gaulish king in single fight; Then to the Capitol in triumph move, And the third spoils shall grace Feretrian Jove." Æneas here beheld, of form divine, A godlike youth in glittering armour shine, With great Marcellus keeping equal pace; But gloomy were his eyes, dejected was his face. He saw, and, wondering, asked his airy guide, What and of whence was he, who pressed the hero's side? "His son, or one of his illustrious name? How like the former, and almost the same! Observe the crowds that compass him around; All gaze, and all admire, and raise a shouting sound: But hovering mists around his brows are spread, And night, with sable shades, involves his head." "Seek not to know (the ghost replied with tears) The sorrows of thy sons in future years. This youth (the blissful vision of a day) Shall just be shown on earth, and snatched away. The gods too high had raised the Roman state, Were but their gifts as permanent as great. What groans of men shall fill the Martian Field! How fierce a blaze his flaming pile shall yield! What funeral pomp shall floating Tyber see, When, rising from his bed, he views the sad solemnity! No youth shall equal hopes of glory give, No youth afford so great a cause to grieve. The Trojan honour, and the Roman boast, Admired when living, and adored when lost! Mirror of ancient faith in early youth! Undaunted worth, inviolable truth! No foe, unpunished, in the fighting-field Shall dare thee, foot to foot, with sword and shield, Much less in arms oppose thy matchless force, When thy sharp spurs shall urge thy foaming horse.