But meanwhile Neptune Saw ocean in a welter of confusion, The roar of storm, and deep and surface mingled. Troublesome business, this; he rose, majestic, From under the waves, and saw the Trojan vessels Scattered all over the sea by the might of the waves And the wreck of sky; he recognized the anger And cunning of his sister, and he summoned The winds by name:--“What arrogance is this, What pride of birth, you winds, to meddle here Without my sanction, raising all this trouble? I’ll--No, the waves come first: but listen to me, You are going to pay for this! Get out of here! Go tell your king the lordship of the ocean, The trident, are not his, but mine. His realm Reaches no further than the rocks and caverns You brawlers dwell in; let him rule that palace, Big as he pleases, shut you in, and stay there!” This said, he calmed the swollen sea and cloud, Brought back the sun; Cymothoe and Triton, Heaving together, pulled the ships from the reef, As Neptune used his trident for a lever, Opened the quicksand, made the water smooth, And the flying chariot skimmed the level surface. Sometimes, in a great nation, there are riots With the rabble out of hand, and firebrands fly And cobblestones; whatever they lay their hands on Is a weapon for their fury, but should they see One man of noble presence, they fall silent, Obedient dogs, with ears pricked up, and waiting, Waiting his word, and he knows how to bring them Back to good sense again. So ocean, roaring, Subsided into stillness, as the sea-god Looked forth upon the waters, and clear weather Shone over him as he drove his flying horses. Aeneas’ weary children make for harbor, Whichever lies most near, and the prows are turned To Libya’s coast-line. In a bay’s deep curve They find a haven, where the water lies With never a ripple. A little island keeps The sea-swell off, and the waves break on its sides And slide back harmless. The great cliffs come down Steep to deep water, and the background shimmers, Darkens and shines, the tremulous aspen moving And the dark fir pointing still. And there is a cave Under the overhanging rocks, alive With water running fresh, a home of the Nymphs, With benches for them, cut from the living stone. No anchor is needed here for weary ships, No mooring-cable. Aeneas brings them in, Seven weary vessels, and the men are glad To be ashore again, to feel dry sand Under the salt-stained limbs. Achates strikes The spark from the flint, catches the fire on leaves, Adds chips and kindling, blows and fans the flame, And they bring out the soaked and salty corn, The hand-mills, stone and mortar, and make ready, As best they can, for bread.