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      The shouts of sailors double near the shores;

      They stretch their canvas, and they ply their oars.

      ‘All hands aloft! for Crete! for Crete!’ they cry,

      And swiftly thro’ the foamy billows fly.

      Full on the promis’d land at length we bore,

      With joy descending on the Cretan shore.

      With eager haste a rising town I frame,

      Which from the Trojan Pergamus I name:

      The name itself was grateful; I exhort

      To found their houses, and erect a fort.

      Our ships are haul’d upon the yellow strand;

      The youth begin to till the labor’d land;

      And I myself new marriages promote,

      Give laws, and dwellings I divide by lot;

      When rising vapors choke the wholesome air,

      And blasts of noisome winds corrupt the year;

      The trees devouring caterpillars burn;

      Parch’d was the grass, and blighted was the corn:

      Nor ’scape the beasts; for Sirius, from on high,

      With pestilential heat infects the sky:

      My men—some fall, the rest in fevers fry.

      Again my father bids me seek the shore

      Of sacred Delos, and the god implore,

      To learn what end of woes we might expect,

      And to what clime our weary course direct.

      “’Twas night, when ev’ry creature, void of cares,

      The common gift of balmy slumber shares:

      The statues of my gods (for such they seem’d),

      Those gods whom I from flaming Troy redeem’d,

      Before me stood, majestically bright,

      Full in the beams of Phoebe’s ent’ring light.

      Then thus they spoke, and eas’d my troubled mind:

      ‘What from the Delian god thou go’st to find,

      He tells thee here, and sends us to relate.

      Those pow’rs are we, companions of thy fate,

      Who from the burning town by thee were brought,

      Thy fortune follow’d, and thy safety wrought.

      Thro’ seas and lands as we thy steps attend,

      So shall our care thy glorious race befriend.

      An ample realm for thee thy fates ordain,

      A town that o’er the conquer’d world shall reign.

      Thou, mighty walls for mighty nations build;

      Nor let thy weary mind to labors yield:

      But change thy seat; for not the Delian god,

      Nor we, have giv’n thee Crete for our abode.

      A land there is, Hesperia call’d of old,

      (The soil is fruitful, and the natives bold-

      Th’ Oenotrians held it once,) by later fame

      Now call’d Italia, from the leader’s name.

      Iasius there and Dardanus were born;

      From thence we came, and thither must return.

      Rise, and thy sire with these glad tidings greet.

      Search Italy; for Jove denies thee Crete.’

      “Astonish’d at their voices and their sight,

      (Nor were they dreams, but visions of the night;

      I saw, I knew their faces, and descried,

      In perfect view, their hair with fillets tied;)

      I started from my couch; a clammy sweat

      On all my limbs and shiv’ring body sate.

      To heav’n I lift my hands with pious haste,

      And sacred incense in the flames I cast.

      Thus to the gods their perfect honors done,

      More cheerful, to my good old sire I run,

      And tell the pleasing news. In little space

      He found his error of the double race;

      Not, as before he deem’d, deriv’d from Crete;

      No more deluded by the doubtful seat:

      Then said: ‘O son, turmoil’d in Trojan fate!

      Such things as these Cassandra did relate.

      This day revives within my mind what she

      Foretold of Troy renew’d in Italy,

      And Latian lands; but who could then have thought

      That Phrygian gods to Latium should be brought,

      Or who believ’d what mad Cassandra taught?

      Now let us go where Phoebus leads the way.’

      “He said; and we with glad consent obey,

      Forsake the seat, and, leaving few behind,

      We spread our sails before the willing wind.

      Now from the sight of land our galleys move,

      With only seas around and skies above;

      When o’er our heads descends a burst of rain,

      And night with sable clouds involves the main;

      The ruffling winds the foamy billows raise;

      The scatter’d fleet is forc’d to sev’ral ways;

      The face of heav’n is ravish’d from our eyes,

      And in redoubled peals the roaring thunder flies.

      Cast from our course, we wander in the dark.

      No stars to guide, no point of land to mark.

      Ev’n Palinurus no distinction found

      Betwixt the night and day; such darkness reign’d around.

      Three starless nights the doubtful navy strays,

      Without distinction, and three sunless days;

      The fourth renews the light, and, from our shrouds,

      We view a rising land, like distant clouds;

      The mountain-tops confirm the pleasing sight,

      And curling smoke ascending from their height.

      The canvas falls; their oars the sailors ply;

      From the rude strokes the whirling waters fly.

      At length I land upon the Strophades,

      Safe from the danger of the stormy seas.

      Those isles are compass’d by th’ Ionian main,

      The dire abode where the foul Harpies reign,

      Forc’d by the winged warriors to repair

      To their old homes, and leave their costly fare.

      Monsters more fierce offended Heav’n ne’er sent

      From hell’s abyss, for human punishment:

      With virgin faces, but with wombs obscene,

      Foul

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