XXXV. "Heaven prosper," joyfully he cried, "our deed, And heaven's own augury. Your wish shall stand; I take the gifts. Yours, Trojans, all ye need-- The wealth of Troy, the fatness of the land,-- Nought shall ye lack from King Latinus' hand. Let but AEneas, if he longs so fain To claim our friendship, and a home demand, Come here, nor fear to greet us. Not in vain 'Twixt monarchs stands the peace, which plighted hands ordain. XXXVI. "Let now this message to your King be given. 'A child, the daughter of my heart, is mine, Whom neither frequent prodigies from heaven, Nor voices uttered from my father's shrine, Permit with one of Latin birth to join. Strange sons--so Latin oracles conspire-- Shall come, whose offspring shall exalt our line. Thy King the bridegroom whom the Fates require I deem, and, if in aught I read the truth, desire.'" XXXVII. So speaks Latinus, and with kindly care Choice steeds selects. Three hundred of the best Stand in his lofty stables, sleek and fair; And forth in order for each Teucrian guest His servants led them, at their King's behest. Rich housings, wrought in many a purple fold, And broidered rugs adorn them; o'er each breast Hang golden poitrels, glorious to behold. Each champs with foaming mouth a chain of glittering gold. XXXVIII. A car he orders for the Dardan sire, And twin-yoked coursers of ethereal seed, Whose snorting nostrils breathe the flames of fire. Half-mortal, half-immortal was each steed, The bastard birth of that celestial breed, Which cunning Circe from a mortal mare Raised to her sire the Sun-god. So with speed The mounted Trojans to their prince repair, Pleased with the gifts and words, for peaceful news they bear. XXXIX. Lo! from Inachian Argos through the skies Jove's consort her avenging flight pursues, And far off, from Pachynus, as she flies O'er Sicily, beholds the Dardan crews And great AEneas, gladdening at the news. The rising settlement, the new-tilled shore, The ships deserted for the land she views, And shaking her imperial brows, and sore With anguish, from her breast these wrathful words doth pour: XL. "Ah, hateful race! Ah, Phrygian fates abhorred! What, fell they not on the Sigean plain? Must captives be twice captured? Have the sword And flames of Troy avenged me but in vain? Have foes and fire found passage for the slain? Sooth, then, my godhead sleepeth, and that hand Is tired of hate, which whilom o'er the main Dared chase these outcasts and their paths withstand, Where'er the deep sea rolled, far from their native land!