Thus, walking on, he spoke, and shew’d the gate, Since call’d Carmental by the Roman state; Where stood an altar, sacred to the name Of old Carmenta, the prophetic dame, Who to her son foretold th’ Aenean race, Sublime in fame, and Rome’s imperial place: Then shews the forest, which, in after times, Fierce Romulus for perpetrated crimes A sacred refuge made; with this, the shrine Where Pan below the rock had rites divine: Then tells of Argus’ death, his murder’d guest, Whose grave and tomb his innocence attest. Thence, to the steep Tarpeian rock he leads; Now roof’d with gold, then thatch’d with homely reeds. A reverent fear (such superstition reigns Among the rude) ev’n then possess’d the swains. Some god, they knew—what god, they could not tell— Did there amidst the sacred horror dwell. Th’ Arcadians thought him Jove; and said they saw The mighty Thund’rer with majestic awe, Who took his shield, and dealt his bolts around, And scatter’d tempests on the teeming ground. Then saw two heaps of ruins, (once they stood Two stately towns, on either side the flood,) Saturnia’s and Janiculum’s remains; And either place the founder’s name retains. Discoursing thus together, they resort Where poor Evander kept his country court. They view’d the ground of Rome’s litigious hall; (Once oxen low’d, where now the lawyers bawl;) Then, stooping, thro’ the narrow gate they press’d, When thus the king bespoke his Trojan guest: “Mean as it is, this palace, and this door, Receiv’d Alcides, then a conqueror. Dare to be poor; accept our homely food, Which feasted him, and emulate a god.” Then underneath a lowly roof he led The weary prince, and laid him on a bed; The stuffing leaves, with hides of bears o’erspread. Now night had shed her silver dews around, And with her sable wings embrac’d the ground, When love’s fair goddess, anxious for her son, (New tumults rising, and new wars begun,) Couch’d with her husband in his golden bed, With these alluring words invokes his aid; And, that her pleasing speech his mind may move, Inspires each accent with the charms of love: “While cruel fate conspir’d with Grecian pow’rs, To level with the ground the Trojan tow’rs, I ask’d not aid th’ unhappy to restore, Nor did the succour of thy skill implore; Nor urg’d the labours of my lord in vain, A sinking empire longer to sustain, Tho’ much I ow’d to Priam’s house, and more The dangers of Aeneas did deplore. But now, by Jove’s command, and fate’s decree, His race is doom’d to reign in Italy: With humble suit I beg thy needful art, O still propitious pow’r, that rules my heart! A mother kneels a suppliant for her son.