VIII. Her colour and her features change; loose streams Her hair disordered, and her heart distrest Swells with wild frenzy. Larger now she seems, Her voice not mortal, as her heaving breast Pants, with the approaching Deity possest. "Pray, Trojan," peals her warning utterance, "pray! Cease not, AEneas, nor withhold thy quest, Nor stint thy vows. While dumbly ye delay, Ne'er shall its yawning doors the spell-bound house display." IX. She ceased: at once an icy chill ran through The sturdy Trojans. From his inmost heart Thus prayed the King: "O Phoebus, wont to view With pity Troy's sore travail; thou, whose art True to Achilles aimed the Dardan dart, How oft, thou guiding, have I tracked the main Round mighty lands, to earth's remotest part Massylian tribes and Libya's sandy plain: Scarce now the flying shores of Italy we gain. X. "Enough, thus far Troy's destinies to bear, Ye, too, at length, your anger may abate And deign the race of Pergamus to spare, O Gods and Goddesses, who viewed with hate Troy and the glories of the Dardan state. And thou, dread mistress of prophetic lore, Grant us--I ask but what is due by Fate, Our promised realms--that on the Latian shore Troy's sons and wandering gods may find a home once more. XI. "To Phoebus then and Trivia's sacred name, Thy patron powers, a temple will I rear Of solid marble, and due rites proclaim And festal days, for votaries each year The name of guardian Phoebus to revere. Thee, too, hereafter in our realms await Shrines of the stateliest, for thy name is dear. There safe shall rest the mystic words of Fate, And chosen priests shall guard the oracles of state. XII. "Only to leaves commit not, priestess kind, Thy verse, lest fragments of the mystic scroll Fly, tost abroad, the playthings of the wind. Thyself in song the oracle unroll." He ceased; the seer, impatient of control, Strives, like a frenzied Bacchant, in her cell, To shake the mighty deity from her soul. So much the more, her raging heart to quell, He tires the foaming mouth, and shapes her to his spell. XIII. Then yawned the hundred gates, and every door, Self-opening suddenly, revealed the fane, And through the air the Sibyl's answer bore: "O freed from Ocean's perils, but in vain, Worse evils yet upon the land remain. Doubt not; Troy's sons shall reach Lavinium's shore, And rule in Latium; so the Fates ordain. Yet shall they rue their coming. Woes in store, Wars, savage wars, I see, and Tiber foam with gore.