"O'er thy ship's storm-beaten prow "Victory her wings will spread, "And, glorious, rest at last above a Trojan head. "I see Rutulia flaming round me now. "O barbarous Turnus, I behold thee dead! "Laurentum rushes on my sight, "And proud Lavinium's castled height, "And Alba Longa for thy royal heir. "Now I see a priestess fair "Close in Mars' divine embrace. "Daughter of Ilium, she fled away "From Vesta's fires, and from her virgin face "The fillet dropped, and quite unheeded lay; "Nor shield nor corslet then her hero wore, "Keeping their stolen tryst by Tiber's sacred shore! "Browse, ye bulls, along the seven green hills! "For yet a little while ye may, "E'er the vast city shall confront the day! "O Rome! thy destined glory fills "A wide world subject to thy sway,-- "Wide as all the regions given "To fruitful Ceres, as she looks from heaven "O'er her fields of golden corn, "From the opening gates of morn "To where the Sun in Ocean's billowy stream "Cools at eve his spent and panting team. "Troy herself at last shall praise "Thee and thy far-wandering ways. "My song is truth. Thus only I endure "The bitter laurel-leaf divine, "And keep me at Apollo's shrine "A virgin ever pure." So, Phoebus, in thy name the Sibyl sung, As o'er her frenzied brow her loosened locks she flung. In equal song Herophile Chanted forth the times to be, From her cold Marpesian glade. Amalthea, dauntless maid, In the blessed days gone by, Bore thy book through Anio's river And did thy prophecies deliver, From her mantle, safe and dry. All prophesied of omens dire, The comet's monitory fire, Stones raining down, and tumult in the sky Of trumpets, swords, and routed chivalry; The very forests whispered fear, And through the stormful year Tears, burning tears, from marble altars ran; Dumb beast took voice to tell the fate of man; The Sun himself in light did fail As if he yoked his car to horses mortal-pale. Such was the olden time. O Phoebus, now Of mild, benignant brow, Let those portents buried be In the wild, unfathomed sea! Now let thy laurel loudly flame On altars to thy gracious name, And give good omen of a fruitful year Crackling laurel if the rustic hear, He knows his granary shall bursting be, And sweet new wine flow free, And purple grapes by jolly feet be trod, Vat and cellar will be too small, While at the vintage-festival, With choral song, The tipsy swains carouse the shepherd's god: "Away, ye wolves, and do our folds no wrong!" Then shall the master touch the straw-built fire, And as it blazes high and higher, Lightly leap its lucky crest. A welcome heir with frolic face Shall his jovial sire embrace, And kiss him hard and pull him by the ears; While o'er the cradle the good grand-sire bent Will babble with the babe in equal merriment, And feel no more his weight of years.