XXVII. "Great Jove, to whom our Moorish tribes, reclined On broidered couch, the votive wine-cup drain, See'st thou or, Father, are thy bolts but blind, Mere noise thy thunder, and thy lightnings vain? This woman here, who, wandering on the main, Bought leave to build and govern as her own Her puny town, and till the sandy plain, Our proffered love hath ventured to disown, And takes a Trojan lord, AEneas, to her throne. XXVIII. "And now that Paris, tricked in Lydian guise, With perfumed locks and bonnet, and his crew Of men half-women, gloats upon the prize, While vainly at thy so-called shrines we sue, And nurse a faith as empty as untrue." He prayed and clasped the altar. His request Jove heard, and to the city bent his view, And saw the guilty lovers, lapt in rest And lost to shame, and thus Cyllenius he addressed: XXIX. "Go, son, the Zephyrs call, and wing thy flight To Carthage. Call the Dardan chief away, Who, deaf to Fate, his destined walls doth slight. This mandate through the wafting air convey, Not such fair Venus did her son pourtray, Nor twice for _this_ from Grecian swords reclaim One born to rule Italia, big with sway And fierce for war, and spread the Teucrian name Through Teucer's sons, and laws to conquered earth proclaim. XXX. "If glory cannot tempt him, nor inflame His soul to win such greatness, if indeed He takes no trouble for his own fair fame, Shall he, a father, envy to his seed The towers of Rome, by destiny decreed? What schemes he now? what hope the chief constrains To linger 'mid a hostile race, nor heed Ausonia's sons and the Lavinian plains? Go, bid him sail; enough; that word the sum contains." XXXI. Jove spake. Cyllenius to his feet binds fast His golden sandals, that aloft in flight O'er sea and shore upbear him with the blast, Then takes his rod--the rod of mystic might, That calls from Hell or plunges into night The pallid ghosts, gives sleep or bids it fly, And lifts the dead man's eyelids to the light. Armed with that rod, he rules the clouds on high, And drives the scattered gales, and sails the stormy sky. XXXII. Now, borne along, beneath him he espies The sides precipitous and towering peak Of rugged Atlas, who upholds the skies. Round his pine-covered forehead, wild and bleak, The dark clouds settle and the storm-winds shriek. His shoulders glisten with the mantling snow, Dark roll the torrents down his aged cheek, Seamed with the wintry ravage, and below, Stiff with the gathered ice his hoary beard doth show.