The Aeneid

Arms, and the man I sing, who, forc'd by fate,
And haughty Juno's unrelenting hate,
Expell'd and exil'd, left the Trojan shore.

Why could not I by that strong arm be slain,
And lie by noble Hector on the plain,
Or great Sarpedon, in those bloody fields
Where Simois rolls the bodies and the shields
Of heroes, whose dismember'd hands yet bear
The dart aloft, and clench the pointed spear!"

"That under Ilian walls before their parents died!
Tydides, bravest of the Grecian train!

"Thrice and four times happy those," he cried

He said, and hurl'd against the mountain side
His quiv'ring spear, and all the god applied.
The raging winds rush thro' the hollow wound,
And dance aloft in air, and skim along the ground;

Thy force alone their fury can restrain,
And smooth the waves, or swell the troubled main-
A race of wand'ring slaves, abhorr'd by me,
With prosp'rous passage cut the Tuscan sea;
To fruitful Italy their course they steer,

"O Aeolus! for to thee the King of Heav'n
The pow'r of tempests and of winds has giv'n;

What nations now to Juno's pow'r will pray,
Or off'rings on my slighted altars lay?"

But I, who walk in awful state above,
The majesty of heav'n, the sister wife of Jove,

She, for the fault of one offending foe,
The bolts of Jove himself presum'd to throw: