I went on, Seeing a little Troy, low walls that copied The old majestic ramparts, a tiny river In a dry bed, trying to be the Xanthus, I found the Scaean gates, to hold and cling to. My Trojans, too, were fond of the friendly town, Whose king received them in wide halls; libations Were poured to the gods, and feasts set on gold dishes. Day after day went by, and the winds were calling And the sails filling with a good south-wester. I put my questions to the king and prophet: ‘O son of Troy, the god’s interpreter, Familiar with the tripod and the laurel Of great Apollo, versed in stars and omens, Bird-song and flying wing, be gracious to me, Tell me,--for Heaven has prophesied a journey Without mischance, and all the gods have sent me The counsel of their oracles, to follow Italy and a far-off country; one, But one, Celaeno, prophesied misfortune, Wrath and revolting hunger,--tell me, prophet, What dangers first to avoid, what presence follow To overcome disaster?’ Bullocks slain With proper covenant, and the chaplets loosened, He led me to the temple of Apollo, The very gates, where the god’s presence awed me, And where he spoke, with eloquent inspiration:-- ‘O goddess-born, the journey over the sea Holds a clear sanction for you, under Jove, Who draws the lots and turns the wheel of Fate. I will tell you some few things, not all, that safely You may go through friendly waters, and in time Come to Ausonian harborage; the rest Helenus does not know, or, if he did, Juno would stop his speaking. First of all, Italy, which you think is near, too fondly Ready to enter her nearest port, is distant, Divided from you by a pathless journey And longer lands between. The oar must bend In the Sicilian ocean, and the ships Sail on a farther coast, beyond the lakes Of an infernal world, beyond the isles Where dwells Aeaean Circe, not till then Can the built city rise on friendly ground. Keep in the mind the sign I give you now: One day, when you are anxious and alone At the wave of a hidden river, you will find Under the oaks on the shore, a sow, a white one, Immense, with a new-born litter, thirty young At the old one’s udders; that will be the place, The site of the city, the certain rest from labor. And do not fear the eating of the tables, The fates will find a way, Apollo answer. Avoid this coast of Italy, the lands Just westward of our own; behind those walls Dwell evil Greeks, Narycian Locri, soldiers Of the Cretan king, Idomeneus; the plains Are full of them; a Meliboean captain Governs Petelia, a tiny town Relying on her fortress! Philoctetes Commands her walls. And furthermore, remember, Even when the ships have crossed the sea and anchored,