Of Nysa, wildly singing, their locks curled With vine leaves, following to win a world? Yet what in tales of Gods and men can match For scorn of space, and ardour of despatch, Delight in braving peril, grasp of mind, Our Cæsar’s progress to the verge of Ind! Wilt, Son, in view of all thy future Rome, With her chiefs destined from thyself to come, And while ancestral fire of Troy burns high In thy own veins, put off the hour to try Valour in act, and hesitate to prove Thy right to lordship given Thee by Jove?” “Observe, as they pass by us, one by one, Those who will glorify thy Rome, my Son. Illegible to them, for us the whole Of their careers is writ as on a scroll, See, the grey-bearded King, the Priest, the Sage, Of many years, though not bowed down with age, Whose laws devised to rule a petty town Will fit it when into an empire grown; Next, Tullus, warrior-prince, and Ancus, near, Boasting his wit to catch the popular ear: Then the proud Tarquins; and, of soul as proud, Brutus, grudging not Freedom his sons’ blood— Careless if fainter hearts, a feebler time Brand a patriot’s sacrifice as crime! Ah! changes—leaps and bounds—so fast surprise Brains, toned here to calm, that my aged eyes Are dazzled as forms pass, and then repass, And straight are lost—reflections in a glass. No smoother course for this, thy Rome to be, Than now, my Son, for Thee in Italy. A whirl of arms ere the fair land will deign To grant thy offspring’s right divine to reign; An age-long wrestle; yet a rope of sand Makes a poor rival of an iron band.— Hide from my sight those lictors, and a Son! But they tell how Latium shall be won.— A will inflexible, a discipline Making a religion of a straight line, A consuming, passionate, red-hot force Never prisoned in its volcanic source— Pride in the City of the Seven Hills— Will merge all other passions, heal all ills. These the fire inspired, that in fateful war Gave Cossus and Jove arms of Tuscan Lar. Maligned and banned Camillus their first call Brought as through air to save Rome from the Gaul Fabricius taught the Epirot King Thus, that Rome wounded rises on the wing. From them Serranus learned the art to guide The State, and victor o’er the billows ride As straight as he his furrow erewhile ploughed. Regard these visages serene and proud To do whate’er is Rome’s behest, content To go whithersoever they are sent. See, war’s twin thunderbolts, the Scipios, Their oracle Rome, their one mark her foes. See them to whom Achaia bows the head, With Macedon’s monarch in triumph led;— Avenging on Mycenæ, and the race Of Atreus, on Achilles, the disgrace They heaped upon Troy, and the outraged shrine Of Pallas, their own patroness Divine. Nor fail note that old man, heeding no jeer, No hint of blood slow and sluggish, e’en fear: Resolved throughout of one thing—ne’er, from haste