"Son!" cried the weeping sire, "the wish forego, To learn what late must whelm thy house in woe. Him shall the jealous Fates but show to earth: A short bright flash between decease and birth. Too high, ye Gods! our Roman power had grown, Had this your precious gift been all our own. How shall the field of Mars lament his doom! Its plain reflecting the vast groan of Rome! Tiber! what pomps of woe shall o'er thy wave Gloom, as it murmurs by the recent grave! No youth of Troy, thus rich in early praise, So high the hope of Italy shall raise: Nor shall our Rome, 'mid all her hero-host, A son so bright in dawning glory boast. O piety! O faith of ancient strain! O hand, unconquer'd on the martial plain! On foot, or spurring his impetuous steed, The foe that met him had been sure to bleed. Ah! could'st thou, hapless boy! through fate's decree Break into age, thou should'st Marcellus be!"