John Conington Quotes

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:
With gifts like these for aye to hold,
Rome's heart had e'en been overbold.
Ah! what a groan from Mars's plain
Shall o'er the city sound!
How wilt thou gaze on that long train,
Old Tiber, rolling to the main
Beside his new-raised mound!
No youth of Ilium's seed inspires
With hope as fair his Latian sires:
Nor Rome shall dandle on her knee
A nursling so adored as he.
O piety! O ancient faith!
O hand untamed in battle scathe!
No foe had lived before his sword,
Stemmed he on foot the war's red tide
Or with relentless rowel gored
His foaming charger's side.
Dear child of pity! shouldst thou burst
The dungeon-bars of Fate accurst,
Our own Marcellus thou!

O impotence of man's frail mind To fate and to the future blind, Presumptuous and o'erweening still When Fortune follows at its will!

Arise from my bones, my unknown avenger.

Fury and wrath within me rave,
And tempt me to a warrior's grave.

Is there, friend,' he cries, 'a spot
That knows not Troy's unhappy lot?

A woman's will Is changeful and uncertain still.

Ah! would but Jupiter restore
The strength I had in days of yore!

Along the illimitable shade
Darkling and lone their way they made, Through the vast kingdom of the dead, An empty void, though tenanted:
So travellers in a forest move
With but the uncertain moon above,
Beneath her niggard light.

Now for a heart that scorns dismay:
Now for a soul prepared.

Each has his destined time: a span
Is all the heritage of man:
'Tis virtue's part by deeds of praise
To lengthen fame through after days.

O ye Gods, and O great Jove,
Have pity on a father's love
And hear Evander's prayer:
If 'tis your purpose to restore
My Pallas to my arms once more;
If living is to see his face,
Then grant me life, of your dear grace:
No toil too hard to bear.
But ah! if Fortune be my foe,
And meditate some crushing blow,
Now, now the thread in mercy break,
While hope sees dim and cares mistake,
While still I clasp thee darling boy,
My latest and my only joy,
Nor let assurance, worse than fear,
With cruel tidings wound my ear.

What's kept at home you cancel by a stroke:
What's sent abroad you never can revoke.