“Near the Ceraunian rocks our course we bore; The shortest passage to th’ Italian shore. Now had the sun withdrawn his radiant light, And hills were hid in dusky shades of night: We land, and, on the bosom of the ground, A safe retreat and a bare lodging found. Close by the shore we lay; the sailors keep Their watches, and the rest securely sleep. The night, proceeding on with silent pace, Stood in her noon, and view’d with equal face Her steepy rise and her declining race. Then wakeful Palinurus rose, to spy The face of heav’n, and the nocturnal sky; And listen’d ev’ry breath of air to try; Observes the stars, and notes their sliding course, The Pleiads, Hyads, and their wat’ry force; And both the Bears is careful to behold, And bright Orion, arm’d with burnish’d gold. Then, when he saw no threat’ning tempest nigh, But a sure promise of a settled sky, He gave the sign to weigh; we break our sleep, Forsake the pleasing shore, and plow the deep. “And now the rising morn with rosy light Adorns the skies, and puts the stars to flight; When we from far, like bluish mists, descry The hills, and then the plains, of Italy. Achates first pronounc’d the joyful sound; Then, ‘Italy!’ the cheerful crew rebound. My sire Anchises crown’d a cup with wine, And, off’ring, thus implor’d the pow’rs divine: ‘Ye gods, presiding over lands and seas, And you who raging winds and waves appease, Breathe on our swelling sails a prosp’rous wind, And smooth our passage to the port assign’d!’ The gentle gales their flagging force renew, And now the happy harbour is in view. Minerva’s temple then salutes our sight, Plac’d, as a landmark, on the mountain’s height. We furl our sails, and turn the prows to shore; The curling waters round the galleys roar. The land lies open to the raging east, Then, bending like a bow, with rocks compress’d, Shuts out the storms; the winds and waves complain, And vent their malice on the cliffs in vain. The port lies hid within; on either side Two tow’ring rocks the narrow mouth divide. The temple, which aloft we view’d before, To distance flies, and seems to shun the shore. Scarce landed, the first omens I beheld Were four white steeds that cropp’d the flow’ry field. ‘War, war is threaten’d from this foreign ground,’ My father cried, ‘where warlike steeds are found. Yet, since reclaim’d to chariots they submit, And bend to stubborn yokes, and champ the bit, Peace may succeed to war.’ Our way we bend To Pallas, and the sacred hill ascend; There prostrate to the fierce Virago pray, Whose temple was the landmark of our way. Each with a Phrygian mantle veil’d his head,