The future glories of Rome are described in a grand and well-known passage, to the majestic rhythm of which no English translator seems able to do full justice. The poet contrasts the warlike genius of his countrymen with the softer accomplishments of their rivals:-- “Others with softer hand may mould the brass, Or wake to warmer life the marble mass; Plead at the bar with more prevailing force, Or trace more justly heaven’s revolving course: Roman! be thine the sovereign arts of sway, To ride, and make the subject world obey; Give peace its laws; respect the prostrate foe; Abase the lofty, and exalt the low.” --SYMMONS.[36] One personal sketch the poet’s art had reserved to the last. Anchises points out to his visitor the shade that is to be the great Marcus Marcellus, five times consul--the “Sword of Rome,” as Fabius was said to be its Shield, in the long wars with Carthage, and the conqueror of Syracuse. By his side moves the figure of an armed youth, tall and beautiful, but whose face is sad, and his eyes fixed on the ground. The company of shadows crowd round him, murmuring their admiration. Who is it? Æneas asks. It is the young Marcellus of the Empire, the hope and promise of Rome--the son of Octavia, sister of Augustus, and destined, as many thought, to be his successor. Unwillingly Anchises replies to his son’s question:-- “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 overbold. 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 adored as he. O piety! O ancient faith! O hand untamed in battle scathe! 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 here, 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!” He had died not long before, in his twentieth year, intensely lamented both by his family and the people. The recital of the passage by the poet before his imperial audience had a more striking effect than even he himself could have expected. Octavia swooned away, and had to be removed by her attendants,--sending, however, magnificent presents afterwards to the poet for his eulogy on her dead son.[37]