And thou, O matron of immortal fame! Here dying, to the shore hast left thy name; Caieta still the place is called from thee, The nurse of great Æneas' infancy. Here rest thy bones in rich Hesperia's plains; Thy name ('tis all a ghost can have) remains. Now, when the prince her funeral rites had paid, He ploughed the Tyrrhene seas with sails displayed. From land a gentle breeze arose by night, } Serenely shone the stars, the moon was bright, } And the sea trembled with her silver light. } Now near the shelves of Circe's shores they run, (Circe the rich, the daughter of the Sun,) A dangerous coast!--The goddess wastes her days In joyous songs; the rocks resound her lays. In spinning, or the loom, she spends the night, And cedar brands supply her father's light. From hence were heard, rebellowing to the main, The roars of lions that refuse the chain, The grunts of bristled boars, and groans of bears, And herds of howling wolves that stun the sailors' ears. These from their caverns, at the close of night, Fill the sad isle with horror and affright. Darkling they mourn their fate, whom Circe's power, (That watched the moon, and planetary hour,) With words and wicked herbs, from human kind Had altered, and in brutal shapes confined. Which monsters lest the Trojans' pious host Should bear, or touch upon the enchanted coast, Propitious Neptune steered their course by night, With rising gales, that sped their happy flight. Supplied with these, they skim the sounding shore, And hear the swelling surges vainly roar. Now, when the rosy morn began to rise, And waved her saffron streamer through the skies, When Thetis blushed in purple, not her own, And from her face the breathing winds were blown, A sudden silence sate upon the sea, And sweeping oars, with struggling, urge their way. The Trojan, from the main, beheld a wood, Which thick with shades, and a brown horror, stood: Betwixt the trees the Tyber took his course, With whirlpools dimpled; and with downward force, That drove the sand along, he took his way, And rolled his yellow billows to the sea. About him, and above, and round the wood, The birds that haunt the borders of his flood, That bathed within, or basked upon his side, To tuneful songs their narrow throats applied. The captain gives command; the joyful train Glide through the gloomy shade, and leave the main. Now, Erato! thy poet's mind inspire, And fill his soul with thy celestial fire. Relate what Latium was; her ancient kings; Declare the past and present state of things, When first the Trojan fleet Ausonia sought, And how the rivals loved, and how they fought. These are my theme, and how the war began, And how concluded by the godlike man: For I shall sing of battles, blood, and rage, Which princes and their people did engage; And haughty souls, that, moved with mutual hate, In fighting fields pursued and found their fate; That roused the Tyrrhene realm with loud alarms, And peaceful Italy involved in arms. A larger scene of action is displayed; And, rising hence, a greater work is weighed. Latinus, old and mild, had long possessed The Latian sceptre, and his people blessed: His father Faunus: a Laurentian dame His mother; fair Marica was her name. But Faunus came from Picus: Picus drew His birth from Saturn, if records be true. Thus king Latinus, in the third degree, Had Saturn author of his family. But this old peaceful prince, as heaven decreed, Was blessed with no male issue to succeed; His sons in blooming youth were snatched by fate: One only daughter heired the royal state. Fired with her love, and with ambition led, The neighbouring princes court her nuptial bed. Among the crowd, but far above the rest, Young Turnus to the beauteous maid addressed. Turnus, for high descent and graceful mien, Was first, and favoured by the Latian queen; With him she strove to join Lavinia's hand; But dire portents the purposed match withstand. Deep in the palace, of long growth, there stood A laurel's trunk, a venerable wood; Where rites divine were paid; whose holy hair Was kept and cut with superstitious care. This plant Latinus, when his town he walled, Then found, and from the tree Laurentum called: And last, in honour of his new abode, He vowed the laurel to the laurel's god. It happened once, (a boding prodigy!) A swarm of bees, that cut the liquid sky, (Unknown from whence they took their airy flight,) Upon the topmost branch in clouds alight; There, with their clasping feet, together clung, And a long cluster from the laurel hung.