The sad Spectators, stiffen'd with their Fears
She sees, and sudden ev'ry Limb she smears;
Then each of savage Beasts the Figure bears.
The Sun did now to Western Waves retire,
In Tides to temper his bright World of Fire.
Canens laments her Royal Husband's Stay;
Ill suits fond Love with Absence, or Delay.
Where she commands, her ready People run;
She wills, retracts; bids, and forbids anon.
Restless in Mind, and dying with Despair,
Her Breasts she beats, and tears her flowing Hair.
Six Days, and Nights she wanders on, as Chance
Directs, without or Sleep, or Sustenance.
Tiber at last beholds the weeping Fair;
Her feeble Limbs no more the Mourner bear;
Stretch'd on his Banks, she to the Flood complains,
And faintly tunes her Voice to dying Strains.
The sick'ning Swan thus hangs her Silver Wings,
And, as she droops, her Elegy she sings.
E'er long sad Canens wastes to Air; whilst Fame
The Place still honours with her hapless Name.
Here did the tender Tale of Picus cease,
Above Belief, the Wonder, I confess.
Again we fail, but more Disasters meet,
Foretold by Circe, to our suff'ring Fleet.
My self, unable further Woes to bear,
Declin'd the Voyage, and am refug'd Here.
Æneas arrives in Italy.
Thus Macareus—Now with a pious Aim
Had good Æneas rais'd a fun'ral Flame,
In Honour of his hoary Nurse's Name.
Her Epitaph he fix'd; and setting Sail,
Cajeta left, and catch'd at ev'ry Gale.
