new wars too shall arise, and once againsome great Achilles to some Troy be sent.Then, when the mellowing years have made thee man,no more shall mariner sail, nor pine-tree barkply traffic on the sea, but every landshall all things bear alike: the glebe no moreshall feel the harrow's grip, nor vine the hook;the sturdy ploughman shall loose yoke from steer,nor wool with varying colours learn to lie;but in the meadows shall the ram himself,now with soft flush of purple, now with tintof yellow saffron, teach his fleece to shine.While clothed in natural scarlet graze the lambs.“Such still, such ages weave ye, as ye run,”sang to their spindles the consenting Fatesby Destiny's unalterable decree.Assume thy greatness, for the time draws nigh,dear child of gods, great progeny of Jove!See how it totters—the world's orbed might,earth, and wide ocean, and the vault profound,