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To the pleased gods had Juno said
In conclave: “Troy is in the dust;
Troy, by a judge accursed, unjust, And that strange woman prostrated.
“The day Laomedon ignored
His god-pledged word, resigned to me
And Pallas ever pure, was she, Her people, and their traitor lord.
“Now the Greek woman's guilty guest
Dazzles no more : Priam's perjured sons
Find not against the mighty ones Of Greece a shield in Hector's breast :
“And, long drawn out by private jars,
The war sleeps. Lo! my wrath is o'er :
And him the Trojan vestal bore (Sprung of that hated line) to Mars,
“To Mars restore I. His be rest
In halls of light: by him be drained
The nectar-bowl, his place obtained In the calm companies of the blest.
“While betwixt Rome and Ilion raves
A length of ocean, where they will
Rise empires for the exiles still : While Paris's and Priam's graves
"Are trod by kine, and she-wolves breed
Securely there, unharmed shall stand
Rome's lustrous Capitol, her hand
“Wide-feared, to far-off climes be borne
Her story; where the central main
Europe and Libya parts in twain, Where full Nile laves a land of corn:
“The buried secret of the mine,
(Best left there) let her dare to spurn,
Nor unto man's base uses turn Profane hands laying on things divine.
“Earth’s utmost end, where'er it be,
Let her hosts reach ; careering proud
O'er lands where watery rain and cloud, Or where wild suns hold revelry.
“But, to the warriors of Rome,
Tied by this law, such fates are willed ;
That they seek never to rebuild,
“With darkest omens, deadliest strife,
Shall Troy, raised up again, repeat
Her history; I the victor-fleet Shall lead, Jove's sister and his wife.
“Thrice let Apollo rear the wall
Of brass ; and thrice my Greeks shall hew
The fabric down; thrice matrons rue In chains their sons, their husbands' fall.”
Ill my light lyre such notes beseem.
Stay, Muse; nor, wayward still, rehearse
Sayings of Gods in meagre verse That may but mar a mighty theme.
COME, Music's Queen, from yonder sphere:
Bid thy harp speak : sing high and higher
Or take Apollo's lute and lyre,
Or is some sweet Delusion mine?
I seem to hear, to stray beside
Groves that are holy; whither glide Fair brooks, where breezes are benign.
Me, on mount Vultur once-a lad,
O’ercome with sleepiness and play
(I had left Apulia miles away, That nursed me) doves from Fayland clad
With leaflets. Marvelled all whose nest
Is Acherontia's cliff; who fell
The Bantine forest trees, or dwell On rich Ferentium's lowly breast;
How I could sleep, unharmed by bear
Or dusky serpent. There I lay,
In myrtle hid and holy bay,
Yours, Sisters, yours, the Sabine hills
I climb: at cool Præneste yours,
Yours by flat Tibur, or the shores Of Baiæ. I have loved your rills,
Your choirs : for this Philippi's slaughter,
When fled our captains, harmed not me;
I died not 'neath the cursed tree, Nor sank in Palinurus' water :
Be with me still : and, fears at rest,
I'll launch on raving Bosphorus, stand
Upon Assyria's sultry sand,
Sit down with Spaniards, wild to sate
Their thirst with horses' blood; or roam
Far o'er the quivered Scythian's home By Tanais' banks, inviolate.