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And now this Paris, with his band
Of gallants, like himself, unmanned,
His essenced hair in Lydian wise
With turban bound, enjoys the prize:
We kneel in temples known as thine,
And nurse a fame we dream divine.'

Thus at the altar as he prayed
The Father heard his prayer,
And, turning, Carthage town surveyed,
And that besotted pair:
Then summons Mercury to fulfil
The charge of his almighty will:
'Go forth, my son, command the gales,
And spread for flight thy feathery sails;
Haste to the Dardan chief who waits
In Carthage, heedless of the fates
That grant him other crowns, and bear
My mandate through the bounding air.
No recreant his fair mother swore
Our eyes should see in him she bore
Twice from the grasp of doom:
No—but a chief of force to sway
Italia, charged with battle fray,
With empire in its womb,
The pride of Teucer's blood maintain,
And bow all nations to his reign.
If zeal no more his soul inflame
To labour for his own fair fame,
Yet can the sire behold his child
Of Rome's imperial hills beguiled?
What prospect lures him, day by day
Thus 'mid a hostile race to stay,
Blind to the hopes by fate decreed,
Lavinium's realm, Ausonia's seed?