He said, and then on each bestow’d a steed. Three hundred horses, in high stables fed, Stood ready, shining all, and smoothly dress’d: Of these he chose the fairest and the best, To mount the Trojan troop. At his command The steeds caparison’d with purple stand, With golden trappings, glorious to behold, And champ betwixt their teeth the foaming gold. Then to his absent guest the king decreed A pair of coursers born of heav’nly breed, Who from their nostrils breath’d ethereal fire; Whom Circe stole from her celestial sire, By substituting mares produc’d on earth, Whose wombs conceiv’d a more than mortal birth. These draw the chariot which Latinus sends, And the rich present to the prince commends. Sublime on stately steeds the Trojans borne, To their expecting lord with peace return. But jealous Juno, from Pachynus’ height, As she from Argos took her airy flight, Beheld with envious eyes this hateful sight. She saw the Trojan and his joyful train Descend upon the shore, desert the main, Design a town, and, with unhop’d success, Th’ embassadors return with promis’d peace. Then, pierc’d with pain, she shook her haughty head, Sigh’d from her inward soul, and thus she said: “O hated offspring of my Phrygian foes! O fates of Troy, which Juno’s fates oppose! Could they not fall unpitied on the plain, But slain revive, and, taken, scape again? When execrable Troy in ashes lay, Thro’ fires and swords and seas they forc’d their way. Then vanquish’d Juno must in vain contend, Her rage disarm’d, her empire at an end. Breathless and tir’d, is all my fury spent? Or does my glutted spleen at length relent? As if ’twere little from their town to chase, I thro’ the seas pursued their exil’d race; Ingag’d the heav’ns, oppos’d the stormy main; But billows roar’d, and tempests rag’d in vain. What have my Scyllas and my Syrtes done, When these they overpass, and those they shun? On Tiber’s shores they land, secure of fate, Triumphant o’er the storms and Juno’s hate. Mars could in mutual blood the Centaurs bathe, And Jove himself gave way to Cynthia’s wrath, Who sent the tusky boar to Calydon; What great offence had either people done? But I, the consort of the Thunderer, Have wag’d a long and unsuccessful war, With various arts and arms in vain have toil’d, And by a mortal man at length am foil’d. If native pow’r prevail not, shall I doubt To seek for needful succour from without? If Jove and Heav’n my just desires deny, Hell shall the pow’r of Heav’n and Jove supply. Grant that the Fates have firm’d, by their decree, The Trojan race to reign in Italy; At least I can defer the nuptial day,