XXXIV. "'Freed from that war, to distant shores we stray. To Proteus' Pillars, far remote from men An exile, Menelaus wends his way; Ulysses shudders at the Cyclops' den; Why speak of Pyrrhus, by Orestes slain? Or poor Idomeneus, expelled his state? Of Locrians, cast upon the Libyan plain? Of Agamemnon, greatest of the great, Mycenae's valiant lord, slain by his faithless mate, XXXV. "'E'en on his threshold, when the adulterer lay In wait for Asia's conqueror? Me, too, Hath envious Heaven in exile doomed to stay, Nor home, nor wife, nor Calydon to view. Nay, ghastly prodigies my flight pursue. Transformed to birds, my comrades wing the skies,-- Ah! cruel punishment for friends so true!-- Or skim the streams; from all the shores arise Their piteous shrieks, the cliffs re-echo with their cries. XXXVI. "'Such woes had I to look for, from the day I dared a goddess, and my javelin tore The hand of Venus. To such fights, I pray, Persuade me not. Troy fall'n, I fight no more With Trojans, nor those evil days of yore Now care to dwell on. To AEneas go, And take these gifts. Once, hand to hand, we bore The shock of battle; to my cost I know How to his shield he towers, the whirlwind of his throw. XXXVII. "'Had Ida's land two others borne as great, To Argos Dardanus had found his way, And Greece were mourning now a different fate. The stubborn siege, the conquerors kept at bay, For ten whole years, the triumph's long delay Were his and Hector's doing, each in might Renowned, and each the foremost in the fray, AEneas first in piety. Go, plight What peace ye may, but shun to meet him in the fight.' XXXVIII. "Thou hast, great king, the answer of the king, And this, his sentence on the war." So they, And diverse murmurs in the crowd upspring; As when big rocks a rushing torrent stay, The prisoned waters, chafing with delay, Boil, and the banks in many a foaming crest Fling back with echoes the tumultuous spray. Now from his throne, their murmurs laid to rest, The King, first offering prayer, his listening folk addressed: XXXIX. "I would, ye peers, and better it had been An earlier hour had called us to debate, Than thus in haste a council to convene, And meet, while foemen battle at the gate. A war ill-omened, with disastrous fate, We wage with men unconquered in the field, A race of gods, whose force nor toils abate, Nor wounds can tire; who, driven back, still wield The sword and shake the spear, and, beaten, scorn to yield.