Her crescent-shielded thousands, a golden buckle Below her naked breast, a soldieress Fighting with men. And as he watched these marvels In one long fascinated stare of wonder, Dido, the queen, drew near; she came to the temple With a great train, all majesty, all beauty, As on Eurotas’ riverside, or where Mount Cynthus towers high, Diana leads Her bands of dancers, and the Oreads follow In thousands, right and left, the taller goddess, The quiver-bearing maiden, and Latona Is filled with secret happiness, so Dido Moved in her company, a queen, rejoicing, Ordering on her kingdom’s rising glory. At Juno’s portal, under the arch of the temple, She took her throne, a giver of law and justice, A fair partitioner of toil and duty, And suddenly Aeneas, from the crowd, Saw Trojan men approaching, brave Cloanthus, Sergestus, Antheus, and all those others Whom the black storm had driven here and yonder. This he cannot believe, nor can Achates, Torn between fear and joy. They burn with ardor To seek their comrades’ handclasp, but confusion Still holds them in the cloud: what can have happened? They watch from the cover of mist: men still were coming From all the ships, chosen, it seemed, as pleaders For graciousness before the temple, calling Aloud: what fortune had been theirs, he wonders, Where had they left the ships; why were they coming? They were given audience; Ilioneus, Senior to all, began: “O Queen, whom Jove Has given the founding of a great new city, Has given to bridle haughty tribes with justice, We, pitiful Trojans, over every ocean Driven by storm, make our appeal: keep from us The terrible doom of fire; protect our vessels; Have mercy on a decent race; consider Our lot with closer interest. We have not come To ravish Libyan homes, or carry plunder Down to the shore. We lack the arrogance Of conquerors; there is no aggression in us. There is a place which Greeks have given a name, The Land in the West; it is powerful in arms, Rich in its soil; Oenotrians used to live there, And now, the story goes, a younger people Inhabit it, calling themselves Italians After their leader’s name. We were going there When, big with storm and cloud, Orion rising Drove us on hidden quicksands, and wild winds Scattered us over the waves, by pathless rocks And the swell of the surge. A few of us have drifted Here to your shores. What kind of men are these, What barbarous land permits such attitudes? We have been denied the welcome of the beach, Forbidden to set foot on land; they rouse All kinds of war against us. You despise, It may be, human brotherhood, and arms Wielded by men. But there are gods, remember, Who care for right and wrong. Our king Aeneas