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shall join,

      To cherish and advance the Trojan line.

      The subject world shall Rome’s dominion own,

      And, prostrate, shall adore the nation of the gown.

      An age is ripening in revolving fate

      When Troy shall overturn the Grecian state,

      And sweet revenge her conqu’ring sons shall call,

      To crush the people that conspir’d her fall.

      Then Caesar from the Julian stock shall rise,

      Whose empire ocean, and whose fame the skies

      Alone shall bound; whom, fraught with eastern spoils,

      Our heav’n, the just reward of human toils,

      Securely shall repay with rites divine;

      And incense shall ascend before his sacred shrine.

      Then dire debate and impious war shall cease,

      And the stern age be soften’d into peace:

      Then banish’d Faith shall once again return,

      And Vestal fires in hallow’d temples burn;

      And Remus with Quirinus shall sustain

      The righteous laws, and fraud and force restrain.

      Janus himself before his fane shall wait,

      And keep the dreadful issues of his gate,

      With bolts and iron bars: within remains

      Imprison’d Fury, bound in brazen chains;

      High on a trophy rais’d, of useless arms,

      He sits, and threats the world with vain alarms.”

      He said, and sent Cyllenius with command

      To free the ports, and ope the Punic land

      To Trojan guests; lest, ignorant of fate,

      The queen might force them from her town and state.

      Down from the steep of heav’n Cyllenius flies,

      And cleaves with all his wings the yielding skies.

      Soon on the Libyan shore descends the god,

      Performs his message, and displays his rod:

      The surly murmurs of the people cease;

      And, as the fates requir’d, they give the peace:

      The queen herself suspends the rigid laws,

      The Trojans pities, and protects their cause.

      Meantime, in shades of night Aeneas lies:

      Care seiz’d his soul, and sleep forsook his eyes.

      But, when the sun restor’d the cheerful day,

      He rose, the coast and country to survey,

      Anxious and eager to discover more.

      It look’d a wild uncultivated shore;

      But, whether humankind, or beasts alone

      Possess’d the new-found region, was unknown.

      Beneath a ledge of rocks his fleet he hides:

      Tall trees surround the mountain’s shady sides;

      The bending brow above a safe retreat provides.

      Arm’d with two pointed darts, he leaves his friends,

      And true Achates on his steps attends.

      Lo! in the deep recesses of the wood,

      Before his eyes his goddess mother stood:

      A huntress in her habit and her mien;

      Her dress a maid, her air confess’d a queen.

      Bare were her knees, and knots her garments bind;

      Loose was her hair, and wanton’d in the wind;

      Her hand sustain’d a bow; her quiver hung behind.

      She seem’d a virgin of the Spartan blood:

      With such array Harpalyce bestrode

      Her Thracian courser and outstripp’d the rapid flood.

      “Ho, strangers! have you lately seen,” she said,

      “One of my sisters, like myself array’d,

      Who cross’d the lawn, or in the forest stray’d?

      A painted quiver at her back she bore;

      Varied with spots, a lynx’s hide she wore;

      And at full cry pursued the tusky boar.”

      Thus Venus: thus her son replied again:

      “None of your sisters have we heard or seen,

      O virgin! or what other name you bear

      Above that style—O more than mortal fair!

      Your voice and mien celestial birth betray!

      If, as you seem, the sister of the day,

      Or one at least of chaste Diana’s train,

      Let not an humble suppliant sue in vain;

      But tell a stranger, long in tempests toss’d,

      What earth we tread, and who commands the coast?

      Then on your name shall wretched mortals call,

      And offer’d victims at your altars fall.”

      “I dare not,” she replied, “assume the name

      Of goddess, or celestial honors claim:

      For Tyrian virgins bows and quivers bear,

      And purple buskins o’er their ankles wear.

      Know, gentle youth, in Libyan lands you are—

      A people rude in peace, and rough in war.

      The rising city, which from far you see,

      Is Carthage, and a Tyrian colony.

      Phoenician Dido rules the growing state,

      Who fled from Tyre, to shun her brother’s hate.

      Great were her wrongs, her story full of fate;

      Which I will sum in short. Sichaeus, known

      For wealth, and brother to the Punic throne,

      Possess’d fair Dido’s bed; and either heart

      At once was wounded with an equal dart.

      Her father gave her, yet a spotless maid;

      Pygmalion then the Tyrian scepter sway’d:

      One who condemn’d divine and human laws.

      Then strife ensued, and cursed gold the cause.

      The monarch, blinded with desire of wealth,

      With steel invades his brother’s life by stealth;

      Before the sacred altar made him bleed,

      And long from her conceal’d the cruel deed.

      Some tale, some new pretense, he daily coin’d,

      To soothe his sister, and delude her mind.

      At length, in dead of night, the ghost appears

      Of her unhappy lord: the specter stares,

      And, with erected eyes, his bloody bosom bares.

      The cruel altars and his fate he tells,

      And the dire

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