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And made the wretched captives drain
E'en to its dregs the cup of pain:
She still pursues the flying rout,
And strives to stamp the last spark out;—
Strange mystery of hatred, known
To none but to herself alone!
Thyself wast there when lately she
Raised tumult in the Libyan sea;
Thou saw'st in what confusion blent
She mingled main and firmament,
Armed with Æolian storms in vain,
In bold defiance of thy reign.
Now, working on the Trojan dames,
She foully wraps our fleet in flames,
And drives the crews, their vessels lost,
To settle on an unknown coast.
Thus then, for what remains, I crave
Thine own safe conduct o'er the wave,
That so, emerging from the main,
Laurentian Tiber they may gain,
If what I ask is ruled in Heaven,
If there the city Fate has given.'
Great Ocean's lord replied: 'Tis just
Cythera's queen my realm should trust,
Which erst her being gave:
And oft-times too has Neptune won
Her confidence by service done
In calming wind and wave:
Nor e'en on earth (let Xanthus speak
And Simois) has my arm been weak
Thy gallant son to save.
When fierce Achilles from the coast
Drove to their walls Troy's panting host,
While the choked rivers gasped for breath,
And gave whole multitudes to death,