XCIX. "O dearer than the life, while life remained, My son, by Troy's hard destinies sore tried, Hither I come at Jove's command, who deigned Thy burning ships to save, and pitying-eyed Beholds thy sorrows. Hear then, nor deride The grey-haired Nautes, for his words are good. Choice youths, the bravest, for thy quest provide. Stout hearts ye need in Italy, for rude And rough the Latin race, and hard to be subdued. C. "But seek thou first the nether realms of Dis, And through Avernus tread the dark domain To meet me. Not in Tartarus' abyss, Sad shades of sin and never-ending pain, I dwell, but on the blest Elysian plain Join with the just in fellowship. Now heed: There the chaste Sibyl, if with victims slain, Black sheep, ye seek her, shall thy footsteps lead, And show thy destined walls and progeny decreed. CI. "And now farewell; for dewy Night midway Wheels on her course, and from the Orient sky Fierce beats the breathing of the steeds of Day." He spake, and melted as a mist on high. "Ah, whither," cried AEneas, "wilt thou fly? Who tears thee hence? Where hurriest thou again?" So saying, he wakes the embers ere they die. And offering frankincense and sacred grain, Troy's household gods adores, and hoary Vesta's fane. CII. Forthwith he tells Acestes, then the crews, Jove's will, his father's counsel and his own. All vote assent, nor doth his host refuse. No tarrying now; they write the matrons down, And all who faint or care not for renown They leave behind,--the idlers of each crew, But willing settlers in the new-planned town. These the charred timbers and the thwarts renew, Shape oars and fit the ropes; a gallant band, but few. CIII. AEneas with a ploughshare marks the town, And, homes allotting, gives each place a name, Here Troy, there Ilion. Pleased to wear the crown, A forum good Acestes hastes to frame, And laws to gathered senators proclaim. Rear'd high on Eryx, to the stars ascends A temple, to Idalian Venus' fame. A priest Anchises' sepulchre attends, A grove's far sacred shade his hallowed dust defends. CIV. The rites are paid, the nine-days' feast is o'er, Smooth lies the deep, and Southern winds invite The mariners. Along the winding shore Loud rise the sounds of sorrow, day and night, Where friends, clasped close in lingering undelight, Weep at the thought of parting. Matrons, ay, And men, who lately shuddered at the sight, And loathed the name of Ocean, scorn to stay, And willing hearts now brave the long, laborious way.