d dight him there to ride upon the deep, 80
The Berecynthian Mother-Queen spake, as the tale doth fare,
Unto the Godhead of great Jove:
"Son, grant unto my prayer
That which thy loved mother asks from heaven all tamed to peace:
A wood of pines I have, beloved through many years' increase.
There is a thicket on my height wherein men worship me,
Dim with the blackening of the firs and trunks of maple-tree:
These to the Dardan youth in need of ship-host grudged I nought,
But in my anxious soul as now is born a troubling thought.
Do off my dread, and let, I pray, a mother's prayers avail,
That these amid no shattering sea or whirling wind may fail; 90
Let it avail them that my heights first brought them unto birth."

Answered her son, that swayeth still the stars that rule the earth:
"O mother, whither call'st thou Fate? what wouldst thou have them be?
Shall keels of mortal fashioning gain immortality?
And shall AEneas well assured stray every peril through?
Shall this be right? hath any God the power such things to do?
No less when they have done their work, and safe in Italy
Lie in the haven, which soe'er have overpassed the sea,
And borne the Duke of Dardan men to that Laurentine home,
From such will I take mortal shape, and bid them to become 100
Queens of the sea-plain, such as are Doto the Nereus child,
And Galatea, whose bosoms cleave the foaming waters wild."

He spake and swore it by the flood his Stygian Brother rules,
And by its banks that reek with pitch o'er its black whirling pools,
And with the bowing of his head did all Olympus shake.

And now the promised day was come, nor will the Parcae break
The time fulfilled; when Turnus' threat now bade the Mother heed
That she from those her holy ships should turn the fire at need.
Strange light before the eyes of men shone forth; a mighty cloud
Ran from the dawning down the sky, and there was clashing loud 110
Of Ida's hosts, and from the heavens there fell a voice of fear,
That through Rutulia's host and Troy's fulfilled every ear:
"Make no great haste, O Teucrian men, these ships of mine to save!
Nor arm thereto! for Turnus here shall burn the salt sea wave
Sooner than these, my holy pines. But ye--depart, go free!
The Mother biddeth it: depart, Queens,