And Phlegethon's innavigable flood, } And the black regions of his brother god. } He said; and shook the skies with his imperial nod. } And now at length the numbered hours were come, Prefixed by fate's irrevocable doom, When the great mother of the gods was free To save her ships, and finish Jove's decree. First, from the quarter of the morn, there sprung A light that signed the heavens, and shot along; Then from a cloud, fringed round with golden fires, Were timbrels heard, and Berecynthian choirs; And, last, a voice, with more than mortal sounds, Both hosts, in arms opposed, with equal horror wounds:-- "O Trojan race! your needless aid forbear, And know, my ships are my peculiar care. With greater ease the bold Rutulian may, With hissing brands, attempt to burn the sea, Than singe my sacred pines. But you, my charge, Loosed from your crooked anchors, launch at large, Exalted each a nymph: forsake the sand, And swim the seas, at Cybele's command." No sooner had the goddess ceased to speak, When, lo! the obedient ships their halsers break; And, strange to tell, like dolphins, in the main They plunge their prows, and dive, and spring again: As many beauteous maids the billows sweep, As rode before tall vessels on the deep. The foes, surprised with wonder, stood aghast; Messapus curbed his fiery courser's haste: Old Tyber roared, and, raising up his head, Called back his waters to their oozy bed. Turnus alone, undaunted, bore the shock, And with these words his trembling troops bespoke:-- "These monsters for the Trojans' fate are meant, And are by Jove for black presages sent. He takes the cowards' last relief away; } For fly they cannot, and, constrained to stay, } Must yield unfought, a base inglorious prey. } The liquid half of all the globe is lost; Heaven shuts the seas, and we secure the coast. Theirs is no more than that small spot of ground, Which myriads of our martial men surround. Their feats I fear not, or vain oracles. 'Twas given to Venus they should cross the seas, And land secure upon the Latian plains: Their promised hour is passed, and mine remains. 'Tis in the fate of Turnus, to destroy, With sword and fire, the faithless race of Troy. Shall such affronts as these, alone, inflame The Grecian brothers, and the Grecian name? My cause and theirs is one; a fatal strife, And final ruin, for a ravished wife. Was't not enough, that, punished for the crime, They fell--but will they fall a second time? One would have thought they paid enough before, To curse the costly sex, and durst offend no more. Can they securely trust their feeble wall, A slight partition, a thin interval, Betwixt their fate and them; when Troy, though built