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Rh Be this your genius—to impose

The rule of peace on vanquished foes,

Show pity to the humbled soul,

And crush the sons of pride.'

He ceased; and ere their awe was o'er,

Took up his prophecy once more:

'Lo, great Marcellus! see him tower

With kingly spoils, in conquering power,

The warrior host above!

He in a day of dire debate

Shall 'stablish firm the reeling state,

The Carthaginian bands o'erride,

Break down the Gaul's insurgent pride,

And the third trophy dedicate

To Rome's Feretrian Jove.'

Then spoke Æneas, who beheld

Beside the warrior pace

A youth, full-armed, by none excelled

In beauty's manly grace,

But on his brow was nought of mirth,

And his fixed eyes were dropped on earth:—

'Who, father, he, who thus attends

Upon that chief divine?

His son, or other who descends

From his illustrious line?

What whispers in the encircling crowd!

The portance of his steps how proud!

But gloomy night, as of the dead,

Flaps her sad pinions o'er his head.'

The sire replies, while down his cheek

The teardrops roll apace:

'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: