"Ah, woe! the fields of foam!
The waste of waters for the wearied oar!
Oh! for a city and a certain home;
A rest for sea-worn souls, for weary 'tis to roam!"

LXXXIV. So, not unversed in mischief, from the skies
Amidst the gathered matrons down she came,
In raiment and in face to mortal eyes
No more a Goddess, but an aged dame,
The wife of Doryclus, of Tmarian fame.
E'en venerable Beroe, once blest
With rank, and children and a noble name.
So changed in semblance, the celestial guest
Mixed with the Dardan dames, and thus the crowd addressed:

LXXXV. "Oh, born to sorrow! whom th' Achaian foe
Dragged not to death, when Ilion was o'erthrown!
O hapless race! what still extremer woe
Doth Fortune doom the living to bemoan?
Since Ilion fell, seven summers nigh have flown,
And we o'er every ocean, every plain,
Past cheerless rocks, and under stars unknown,
Oft and so oft are driven, as in vain
Italia's shores we grasp, and welter on the main!

LXXXVI. "'Tis Eryx' land, Acestes is our host.
What hinders for the homeless here to gain
A home--an Ilion for the one we lost?
O fatherland! O home-gods saved in vain,
If still in endless exile we remain!
Ah! nevermore shall I behold with joy
A Xanthus and a Simois again,
Our Hector's streams? ne'er hear the name of Troy?
Up! let devouring flames these ill-starred ships destroy!

LXXXVII. "Methought in sleep, Cassandra's ghost came near,
With torches in her hands, and bade me seize
The flaming firebrands, and exclaimed: 'See, here
Thy Troy, the home that destiny decrees!
The hour is ripe; such prodigies as these
Brook not delay. Lo! here to Neptune rise
Four altars. He, the Sovereign of the seas,
Himself the firebrands and the will supplies.'"
Then straight, with arm drawn back, and fury in her eyes,

LXXXVIII. She waved a torch, and hurled it. Dazed with fear,
The women trembled as she tossed the flame.
Then one who nursed through many a bygone year
The sons of Priam--Pyrgo was the dame,--
"No Trojan this, nor Beroe her name,
The wife of Doryclus. Full sure I ween
Immortal birth her sparkling eyes proclaim.
What breathing beauty! what celestial sheen!
Mark her majestic voice, and more than mortal mien!

LXXXIX. "Myself but now left Beroe, worn out
With sickness, grieving in her heart to miss
These funeral honours