"Great Jove, propitious to the Moorish race, Who feast on painted beds, with offerings grace Thy temples, and adore thy power divine With blood of victims, and with sparkling wine! Seest thou not this? or do we fear in vain Thy boasted thunder, and thy thoughtless reign? Do thy broad hands the forky lightnings lance? Thine are the bolts, or the blind work of chance? A wandering woman builds, within our state, A little town, bought at an easy rate; She pays me homage; (and my grants allow A narrow space of Libyan lands to plough) Yet, scorning me, by passion blindly led, Admits a banished Trojan to her bed! And now this other Paris, with his train Of conquered cowards, must in Afric reign! (Whom, what they are, their looks and garb confess, Their locks with oil perfumed, their Lydian dress.) He takes the spoil, enjoys the princely dame; And I, rejected I, adore an empty name!" His vows, in haughty terms, he thus preferred, And held his altar's horns. The mighty Thunderer heard, Then cast his eyes on Carthage, where he found The lustful pair in lawless pleasure drowned, Lost in their loves, insensible of shame, And both forgetful of their better fame. He calls Cyllenius, and the god attends, By whom this menacing command he sends:-- "Go, mount the western winds, and cleave the sky; Then, with a swift descent, to Carthage fly: There find the Trojan chief, who wastes his days In slothful riot and inglorious ease, Nor minds the future city, given by Fate. To him this message from my mouth relate:-- Not so fair Venus hoped, when twice she won Thy life with prayers, nor promised such a son. Hers was a hero, destined to command A martial race, and rule the Latian land; Who should his ancient line from Teucer draw, And on the conquered world impose the law. If glory cannot move a mind so mean, Nor future praise from fading pleasure wean, Yet why should he defraud his son of fame, And grudge the Romans their immortal name? What are his vain designs? what hopes he more From his long lingering on a hostile shore, Regardless to redeem his honour lost, And for his race to gain the Ausonian coast? Bid him with speed the Tyrian court forsake; With this command the slumbering warrior wake." Hermes obeys; with golden pinions binds His flying feet, and mounts the western winds: And, whether o'er the seas or earth he flies, With rapid force they bear him down the skies. But first he grasps within his awful hand The mark of sovereign power, his magic wand; With this he draws the ghosts from hollow graves; With this he drives them down the Stygian waves; With this he seals in sleep the wakeful sight, And eyes, though closed in death, restores to light. Thus armed, the god begins his airy race, And drives the racking clouds along the liquid space; Now sees the top of Atlas, as he flies, Whose brawny back supports the starry skies;