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      Here loads of lances, in my blood embrued,

      Again shoot upward, by my blood renew’d.’

      “My falt’ring tongue and shiv’ring limbs declare

      My horror, and in bristles rose my hair.

      When Troy with Grecian arms was closely pent,

      Old Priam, fearful of the war’s event,

      This hapless Polydore to Thracia sent:

      Loaded with gold, he sent his darling, far

      From noise and tumults, and destructive war,

      Committed to the faithless tyrant’s care;

      Who, when he saw the pow’r of Troy decline,

      Forsook the weaker, with the strong to join;

      Broke ev’ry bond of nature and of truth,

      And murder’d, for his wealth, the royal youth.

      O sacred hunger of pernicious gold!

      What bands of faith can impious lucre hold?

      Now, when my soul had shaken off her fears,

      I call my father and the Trojan peers;

      Relate the prodigies of Heav’n, require

      What he commands, and their advice desire.

      All vote to leave that execrable shore,

      Polluted with the blood of Polydore;

      But, ere we sail, his fun’ral rites prepare,

      Then, to his ghost, a tomb and altars rear.

      In mournful pomp the matrons walk the round,

      With baleful cypress and blue fillets crown’d,

      With eyes dejected, and with hair unbound.

      Then bowls of tepid milk and blood we pour,

      And thrice invoke the soul of Polydore.

      “Now, when the raging storms no longer reign,

      But southern gales invite us to the main,

      We launch our vessels, with a prosp’rous wind,

      And leave the cities and the shores behind.

      “An island in th’ Aegaean main appears;

      Neptune and wat’ry Doris claim it theirs.

      It floated once, till Phoebus fix’d the sides

      To rooted earth, and now it braves the tides.

      Here, borne by friendly winds, we come ashore,

      With needful ease our weary limbs restore,

      And the Sun’s temple and his town adore.

      “Anius, the priest and king, with laurel crown’d,

      His hoary locks with purple fillets bound,

      Who saw my sire the Delian shore ascend,

      Came forth with eager haste to meet his friend;

      Invites him to his palace; and, in sign

      Of ancient love, their plighted hands they join.

      Then to the temple of the god I went,

      And thus, before the shrine, my vows present:

      ‘Give, O Thymbraeus, give a resting place

      To the sad relics of the Trojan race;

      A seat secure, a region of their own,

      A lasting empire, and a happier town.

      Where shall we fix? where shall our labors end?

      Whom shall we follow, and what fate attend?

      Let not my pray’rs a doubtful answer find;

      But in clear auguries unveil thy mind.’

      Scarce had I said: he shook the holy ground,

      The laurels, and the lofty hills around;

      And from the tripos rush’d a bellowing sound.

      Prostrate we fell; confess’d the present god,

      Who gave this answer from his dark abode:

      ‘Undaunted youths, go, seek that mother earth

      From which your ancestors derive their birth.

      The soil that sent you forth, her ancient race

      In her old bosom shall again embrace.

      Thro’ the wide world th’ Aeneian house shall reign,

      And children’s children shall the crown sustain.’

      Thus Phoebus did our future fates disclose:

      A mighty tumult, mix’d with joy, arose.

      “All are concern’d to know what place the god

      Assign’d, and where determin’d our abode.

      My father, long revolving in his mind

      The race and lineage of the Trojan kind,

      Thus answer’d their demands: ‘Ye princes, hear

      Your pleasing fortune, and dispel your fear.

      The fruitful isle of Crete, well known to fame,

      Sacred of old to Jove’s imperial name,

      In the mid ocean lies, with large command,

      And on its plains a hundred cities stand.

      Another Ida rises there, and we

      From thence derive our Trojan ancestry.

      From thence, as ’tis divulg’d by certain fame,

      To the Rhoetean shores old Teucrus came;

      There fix’d, and there the seat of empire chose,

      Ere Ilium and the Trojan tow’rs arose.

      In humble vales they built their soft abodes,

      Till Cybele, the mother of the gods,

      With tinkling cymbals charm’d th’ Idaean woods,

      She secret rites and ceremonies taught,

      And to the yoke the savage lions brought.

      Let us the land which Heav’n appoints, explore;

      Appease the winds, and seek the Gnossian shore.

      If Jove assists the passage of our fleet,

      The third propitious dawn discovers Crete.’

      Thus having said, the sacrifices, laid

      On smoking altars, to the gods he paid:

      A bull, to Neptune an oblation due,

      Another bull to bright Apollo slew;

      A milk-white ewe, the western winds to please,

      And one coal-black, to calm the stormy seas.

      Ere this, a flying rumor had been spread

      That fierce Idomeneus from Crete was fled,

      Expell’d and exil’d; that the coast was free

      From foreign or domestic enemy.

      “We leave the Delian ports, and put to sea;

      By Naxos, fam’d for vintage, make our way;

      Then green Donysa pass; and sail in sight

      Of Paros’ isle, with marble quarries white.

      We pass the scatter’d isles

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