Achates, see the bright refulgent glow Upon her face! ‘T is light divine! And from her locks Ambrosial, heavenly odors breathe! Her garments sweep In stately folds, and she doth walk, a goddess all, With tread majestic! Lo, ‘t is Venus’ self! O stay, My heavenly mother, stay! Why dost thou, cruel too, So often mock thy son with borrowed semblances? Why may we not join hands, each in his proper self, And speak the words of truth? Ah me! She’s vanished quite, And I am left forlorn!— Deeply moved, he follows her vanishing figure. _Achates_, seeking to divert Æneas, leads him to the parapet and points out to him the life awakening in the city below (422-429). Behold this city with its gates and mighty walls, And well-paved streets, where even now the Tyrians With eager zeal press on their various toil. See there, Some build the citadel and heave up massive stones With straining hands; while some a humbler task essay, And trace the furrow round their future homes. Behold, Within the harbor others toil, and here thou seest The deep foundations of the theater, where soon Shall rise huge columns, stately set, to deck the scene. _Æneas_(430-437): Yea all, like busy bees throughout the flowery mead, Are all astir with eager toil. O blessed toil! O happy ye, whose walls already rise! But I,— When shall I see _my_ city and my city’s walls? He remains in deep dejection. _Achates_, observing the pediment of the temple itself (456-458): But here, O friend, behold, in carvèd imagery, Our Trojan battles one by one, that mighty strife Whose fame has filled the world. Here see Achilles fierce, The sons of Atreus,—and, alas, our fallen king! _Æneas_, deeply affected (459-463): What place, Achates, what far corner of the world Is not o’erburdened with our woes? O fallen King, E’en here our glorious struggle wins its meed of praise, And those our mortal hopes defeated and o’erthrown, Are mourned by human tears. Therefore our present cares Let us dismiss. This fame shall bring us safety too. _Achates_, continuing to examine the pediment (467, 468): See how the Greeks are fleeing, pressed by Trojan youth! While here, alas, our warriors flee Achilles’ might. _Æneas_ (469-478): And here behold the ill-starred Rhesus’ white-winged tents, Where fierce Tydides slays his sleeping foe; and drives Those snowy steeds to join the Grecian camp, before They graze in Trojan meadows or the Xanthus drink. Alas poor Troilus, I see thee too, ill-matched With great Achilles. Prone thou liest within thy car, While in the dust thy comely locks and valiant spear Are basely trailed. _Achates_ (479-482):