Now when the viands were withdrawn, and ceas’d 95 The first division of the splendid feast, While round a vacant board the chiefs recline, Huge goblets are brought forth; they crown the wine; Voices of gladness roll the walls around; Those gladsome voices from the courts rebound; 100 From gilded rafters many a blazing light Depends, and torches overcome the night. The minutes fly--till, at the queen’s command, A bowl of state is offered to her hand: Then she, as Belus wont, and all the line 105 From Belus, filled it to the brim with wine; Silence ensued. “O Jupiter, whose care Is hospitable dealing, grant my prayer! Productive day be this of lasting joy To Tyrians, and these exiles driven from Troy; 110 A day to future generations dear! Let Bacchus, donor of soul-quick’ning cheer, Be present; kindly Juno, be thou near! And, Tyrians, may your choicest favours wait Upon this hour, the bond to celebrate!” 115 She spake and shed an offering on the board; Then sipp’d the bowl whence she the wine had pour’d And gave to Bitias, urging the prompt lord; He rais’d the bowl, and took a long deep draught; Then every chief in turn the beverage quaff’d. 120 Graced with redundant hair, Iopas sings The lore of Atlas, to resounding strings, The labours of the Sun, the lunar wanderings; Whence human kind, and brute; what natural powers Engender lightning, whence are falling showers. 125 He haunts Arcturus,--that fraternal twain The glittering Bears,--the Pleiads fraught with rain; --Why suns in winter, shunning heaven’s steep heights Post seaward,--what impedes the tardy nights. The learned song from Tyrian hearers draws 130 Loud shouts,--the Trojans echo the applause. --But, lengthening out the night with converse new, Large draughts of love unhappy Dido drew; Of Priam ask’d, of Hector--o’er and o’er-- What arms the son of bright Aurora wore;-- 135 What steeds the car of Diomed could boast; Among the leaders of the Grecian host How look’d Achilles, their dread paramount-- “But nay--the fatal wiles, O guest, recount, Retrace the Grecian cunning from its source, 140 Your own grief and your friends’--your wandering course; For now, till this seventh summer have ye rang’d The sea, or trod the earth, to peace estrang’d.” 1823 “ARMS AND THE MAN I SING, THE FIRST WHO BORE” The following version of the first few lines of the _Æneid_ were copied by Professor Reed of Philadelphia, with Mrs. Wordsworth’s permission, during a visit to Rydal Mount in 1854, four years after the poet’s death. Mrs. Reed kindly sent them to me.--ED.