Of Gyas, Lycus, and of Amycus.
The day, but not their sorrows, ended thus.
When, from aloft, almighty Jove surveys
Earth, air, and shores, and navigable seas,
At length on Libyan realms he fix’d his eyes—
Whom, pond’ring thus on human miseries,
When Venus saw, she with a lowly look,
Not free from tears, her heav’nly sire bespoke:
“O King of Gods and Men! whose awful hand
Disperses thunder on the seas and land,
Disposing all with absolute command;
How could my pious son thy pow’r incense?
Or what, alas! is vanish’d Troy’s offense?
Our hope of Italy not only lost,
On various seas by various tempests toss’d,
But shut from ev’ry shore, and barr’d from ev’ry coast.
You promis’d once, a progeny divine
Of Romans, rising from the Trojan line,
In after times should hold the world in awe,
And to the land and ocean give the law.
How is your doom revers’d, which eas’d my care
When Troy was ruin’d in that cruel war?
Then fates to fates I could oppose; but now,
When Fortune still pursues her former blow,
What can I hope? What worse can still succeed?
What end of labors has your will decreed?
Antenor, from the midst of Grecian hosts,
Could pass secure, and pierce th’ Illyrian coasts,
Where, rolling down the steep, Timavus raves
And thro’ nine channels disembogues his waves.
At length he founded Padua’s happy seat,
And gave his Trojans a secure retreat;
There fix’d their arms, and there renew’d their name,
And there in quiet rules, and crown’d with fame.
But we, descended from your sacred line,
Entitled to your heav’n and rites divine,
Are banish’d earth; and, for the wrath of one,
Remov’d from Latium and the promis’d throne.
Are these our scepters? these our due rewards?
And is it thus that Jove his plighted faith regards?”
To whom the Father of th’ immortal race,
Smiling with that serene indulgent face,
With which he drives the clouds and clears the skies,
First gave a holy kiss; then thus replies:
“Daughter, dismiss thy fears; to thy desire
The fates of thine are fix’d, and stand entire.
Thou shalt behold thy wish’d Lavinian walls;
And, ripe for heav’n, when fate Aeneas calls,
Then shalt thou bear him up, sublime, to me:
No councils have revers’d my firm decree.
