Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/126

Bethink you further, whose the ground
That hems your infant city round.
Here lie Gætulian cantons rude,
A race untamed in battle-feud,
The Nomad, reinless as his steed,
And tribes that churlish Syrtes breed:
There regions parched and summer-dried,
And Barca's people, prowling wide.
Why talk of menaces from Tyre,
The mutterings of fraternal ire?
'Twas heaven and Juno's grace that bore,
I ween, these Trojans to our shore.
How glorious then my sister's towers,
How vast her empire's rising powers,
Linked to so grand a fate!
With Teucrian armies at its side,
To what a pinnacle of pride
Will mount the Punic state!
Pray you to heaven: that favour gained,
Give hospitality its sweep,
And hold him still by pleas detained,
While fierce Orion rules the deep,
While shattered vessels fear the wind,
While skies are sullen and unkind.'
With words like these her sister piled
Fresh fuel on the flame,
Bade doubt be hopeful, and beguiled
The fears of woman's fame.

First they implore the powers divine,
And ask for peace from shrine to shrine.
Choice sheep of two years' age are slain,
As ceremonial rules ordain,
To Ceres, law's eternal spring,
To Phœbus, and Lyæus king,
But chief to Juno, who presides
Supreme o'er bridegrooms and o'er brides.