O filial love! O faith of days gone by!
O hand unconquered! None had hoped to bide
Unscathed his onset, nor his arm defy,
When, foot to foot, the murderous sword he plied,
Or dug with iron heel his foaming charger's side.

CXIX. "Ah! child of tears! can'st thou again be free
And burst Fate's cruel bondage, Rome shall know
Her own Marcellus, reappeared in thee.
Go, fill your hands with lilies; let me strow
The purple blossoms where he lies below.
These gifts, at least, in sorrow will I lay,
To grace my kinsman's spirit, thus--but oh!
Alas, how vainly!--to the thankless clay
These unavailing dues, these empty offerings pay."

CXX. Twain are the gates of Sleep; one framed, 'tis said,
Of horn, which easy exit doth invite
For real shades to issue from the dead.
One with the gleam of polished ivory bright,
Whence only lying visions leave the night.
Through this Anchises, talking by the way,
Sends forth the son and Sibyl to the light.
Back hastes AEneas to his friends, and they
Straight to Caieta steer, and anchor in her bay.




BOOK SEVEN