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Dear child of Troy, in whom alone
Astyanax, my lost, my own,
Survives in second life!
Like yours his hands, like yours his brow,
Like yours his eyes' bright sheen:
And oh! he might be growing now
In years as fresh and green.'

Hot tear-drops in my eyelids swell,
As thus I speak my last farewell:
'Live and be blest! 'tis sweet to feel
Fate's book is closed and under seal.
For us, alas! that volume stern
Has many another page to turn.
Yours is a rest assured: no more
Of ocean wave to task the oar,
No far Ausonia to pursue,
Still flying, flying from the view.
A mimic Xanthus and a Troy
Framed by yourselves your thoughts employ,
Born (grant it, Heaven!) in happier day
Nor offering Greece so sure a prey.
If Tiber's bank 'tis mine to see
And build the walls my fates decree,
Then shall these kindred towns and towers,
Epirot yours, Hesperian ours,
Sprung from one father long ago,
And partners in a common woe,
Be knit together, heart and soul,
In one fair Troy, one patriot whole:
Such be the legacy we leave,
Such bond for sons unborn to weave!'

Away we speed along the sea
Beneath Ceraunian steeps,