But therewithal they speed their way as led the road along; And now they scale a spreading hill that o'er the town is hung, And looking downward thereupon hath all the burg in face. 420 Æneas marvels how that world was once a peasants' place, He marvels at the gates, the roar and rattle of the ways. Hot-heart the Tyrians speed the work, and some the ramparts raise, Some pile the burg high, some with hand roll stones up o'er the ground; Some choose a place for dwelling-house and draw a trench around; Some choose the laws, and lords of doom, the holy senate choose. These thereaway the havens dig, and deep adown sink those The founding of the theatre walls, or cleave the living stone In pillars huge, one day to show full fair the scene upon. As in new summer 'neath the sun the bees are wont to speed 430 Their labour in the flowery fields, whereover now they lead The well-grown offspring of their race, or when the cells they store With flowing honey, till fulfilled of sweets they hold no more; Or take the loads of new-comers, or as a watch well set Drive off the lazy herd of drones that they no dwelling get; Well speeds the work, and thymy sweet the honey's odour is. "Well favoured of the Fates are ye, whose walls arise in bliss!" Æneas cries, a-looking o'er the housetops spread below; Then, wonderful to tell in tale, hedged round with cloud doth go Amid the thickest press of men, and yet of none is seen. 440