Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/135

No, let him sail: that word in one
Says all: be thus our errand done.'

The god his father's bidding plies:
And first around his feet he ties
His golden wings, that take the breeze
And waft him high o'er earth or seas:
Then grasps his rod, that calls to light
Pale ghosts, or plunges them in night,
Induces sleep or bids it fly,
And opes again the dead man's eye.
That rod in hand, he drives the gales,
Or cleaves his way through misty veils.
Now the tall peak and sides he spies
Of Atlas, who supports the skies,
Of Atlas, o'er whose pine-crowned head
An awful haze of clouds is spread,
While wintry blast and driving sleet
For ever on his temples beat:
The snow-drift robes his shoulders bleak:
The torrent courses down his cheek,
And points, as winds its waters warp,
His beard with ice-flakes, keen and sharp.
Poised on his wings, here Hermes stood;
Then stooped him headlong to the flood,
E'en as a bird that skims the tide,
Low coasts and fishy rocks beside.
So 'twixt the earth and heaven he sails,
So parts the sand-beach from the gales,
As from his mother's sire he fares,
Cyllene's God, through Libyan airs.

Soon as his feet, as winged for flight,
On Carthaginian ground alight,
He sees Æneas full in view
Planning fresh towers and dwellings new: