For his mother Cupid put off his wings, and went rejoicing With young Iulus’ stride; the real Iulus Venus had lulled in soft repose, and borne him Warm in her bosom to Idalian groves, Where the soft marjoram cradled him with blossom Exhaling shadowy sweetness over his slumber. And, with Achates leading, Cupid came Obedient to his mother, bringing gifts. The queen receives them, on a golden couch Below the royal tapestries, where spreads Of crimson wait Aeneas and his Trojans. Servants bring water for their hands, and bread In baskets, and fine napkins. At the fire Are fifty serving-maids, to set the feast, A hundred more, girls, and a hundred boys To load the tables, and bring the goblets round, As through the happy halls the Tyrians throng, Admire the Trojan gifts, admire Iulus, The young god with the glowing countenance, The charming words, the robe, the saffron veil Edged with acanthus. More than all the rest, Disaster-bound, the unhappy queen takes fire, And cannot have enough of looking, moved Alike by boy and gifts. She watches him Cling to his father’s neck, or come to her For fondling, and her eyes, her heart, receive him, Alas, poor queen, not knowing what a god Is plotting for her sorrow. He remembers What Venus told him; she forgets a little About Sychaeus; the heart unused to love Stirs with a living passion. When the first quiet settled over the tables, And the boards were cleared, they set the great bowls down, Crowning the wine with garlands. A great hum Runs through the halls, the voices reach the rafters, The burning lamps below the fretted gold, The torches flaring, put the night to rout. The queen commands the loving-cup of Belus, Heavy with gems and gold, and fills it full, And silence fills the halls before her prayer:-- “Jupiter, giver of laws for host and guest, Grant this to be a happy day for all, Both Tyrians and travellers from Troy, And something for our children to remember! May Bacchus, giver of joy, attend, and Juno Be kind, and all my Tyrians be friendly!” She poured libation on the table, touched The gold rim with her lips, passed on the bowl To Bitias, who dove deep, and other lords Took up the challenge. And a minstrel played A golden lyre, Iopas, taught by Atlas: Of the sun’s labors and the wandering moon He sang, whence came the race of beasts and man, Whence rain and fire, the stars and constellations, Why suns in winter hasten to the sea, Or what delay draws out the dawdling nights. The Tyrians roar, applauding, and the Trojans Rejoice no less, and the poor queen prolongs The night with conversation, drinking deep Of her long love, and asking many questions Of Priam, Hector; of the arms of Memnon;