In clutching popular applause, to waste A chance on Fortune’s wheel for his Rome’s Shield To foil War’s cross-eyed Master in the field; And, near to him, in Britomart’s royal spoils,— Like a brave boar, trapped in a huntsman’s toils, Unconquerable else—the battle’s lord— Confess it, Gaul, Carthage, and Syracuse—Rome’s Sword! But who is this, Thou askest, in the pride Of arms and youth, advancing by his side? Thou mark’st the likeness; well might he be son: From the same stock he springs, a noble one. Strange, in the changeless calm of these blest groves The shadow of a brooding sorrow moves.... Well might I weep, if Spirit could, the fate Of good as fair, and not more good than great. Earth will have but seen to lose him! Heaven, Wert thou jealous, lest, thinking him given To this our mighty Rome, not just on loan, But to live her life, be her very own, She would wax overweening? Yet the woe Must surely wake thy pity, when, below, Thou hear’st the wails numberless for such charms Borne to their pyre upon the Field of Arms; And Thou, old Tiber, as thou flowest by The tomb in which the loved One’s ashes lie, Wilt not forget how thou hast seen him play Oft on thy banks young, beautiful, and gay. Never will hope be raised so high by boy Blending the blood of Latium and Troy; And, when shall our earth ever find again Such loyalty and faith in living men— A right hand so approved in every art, On horse, or foot, to do a soldier’s part? I pity, praise, love! Arrest but the chain Of Fate; and lo! Marcellus come again! —Armfuls of lilies bring; for Soul as sweet! Spread crimson flow’rs, fit carpet for his feet! —Grief for a Shadow, from a Shadow grief; Yet Shadows find a Shadow of relief For boundless loss in Shadows e’en of grief!”