My friends, at Ceres’ now deserted seat. We met: not one was wanting; only she Deceiv’d her friends, her son, and wretched me. “What mad expressions did my tongue refuse! Whom did I not, of gods or men, accuse! This was the fatal blow, that pain’d me more Than all I felt from ruin’d Troy before. Stung with my loss, and raving with despair, Abandoning my now forgotten care, Of counsel, comfort, and of hope bereft, My sire, my son, my country gods I left. In shining armour once again I sheathe My limbs, not feeling wounds, nor fearing death. Then headlong to the burning walls I run, And seek the danger I was forc’d to shun. I tread my former tracks; thro’ night explore Each passage, ev’ry street I cross’d before. All things were full of horror and affright, And dreadful ev’n the silence of the night. Then to my father’s house I make repair, With some small glimpse of hope to find her there. Instead of her, the cruel Greeks I met; The house was fill’d with foes, with flames beset. Driv’n on the wings of winds, whole sheets of fire, Thro’ air transported, to the roofs aspire. From thence to Priam’s palace I resort, And search the citadel and desert court. Then, unobserv’d, I pass by Juno’s church: A guard of Grecians had possess’d the porch; There Phoenix and Ulysses watch the prey, And thither all the wealth of Troy convey: The spoils which they from ransack’d houses brought, And golden bowls from burning altars caught, The tables of the gods, the purple vests, The people’s treasure, and the pomp of priests. A rank of wretched youths, with pinion’d hands, And captive matrons, in long order stands. Then, with ungovern’d madness, I proclaim, Thro’ all the silent street, Creusa’s name: Creusa still I call; at length she hears, And sudden thro’ the shades of night appears. Appears, no more Creusa, nor my wife, But a pale spectre, larger than the life. Aghast, astonish’d, and struck dumb with fear, I stood; like bristles rose my stiffen’d hair. Then thus the ghost began to soothe my grief ‘Nor tears, nor cries, can give the dead relief. Desist, my much-lov’d lord, t’ indulge your pain; You bear no more than what the gods ordain. My fates permit me not from hence to fly; Nor he, the great controller of the sky. Long wand’ring ways for you the pow’rs decree; On land hard labours, and a length of sea. Then, after many painful years are past, On Latium’s happy shore you shall be cast, Where gentle Tiber from his bed beholds The flow’ry meadows, and the feeding folds. There end your toils; and there your fates provide A quiet kingdom, and a royal bride: There fortune shall the Trojan line restore,