Hauls down the bark and to the ocean veers;
The sides well calk'd, the briny wave defy,
495 The living woods, their shapeless limbs supply,
From the green oar the bleeding leaf they tear,
They run, they toil, they press the phasing care.

In gath'ring numbers from the town they pour,
Wind o'er the plain, and spread along the shore
500 Like ants, that forage for a future day, 500
And to their stores the plunder'd wheat convey;
In narrow columns move the sable train;
These with main strength roll on the pond'rous grain;
These press the march, and these the loit'rers drive;
505 They go, they come, their path seems all alive.

Ill fated Queen! what pangs your bosom tore,
What sighs you heav'd, as on the moving shore,
The busy crews, assembling in your sight,
With dashing waves, their horrid shouts unite.
510 Love, in our heart! how boundless is thy force!
To tears again, to pray'r she has recourse;
Love bends her soul each suppliant art to try,
Each humble suit, ere she resolve, to die.
"See, Anna, see, the crowded beach they hide,
515 See how they spread, they swarm from ev'ry side;
Their open sails already court the wind,
The stern with wreaths the joyful sailors bind.
Oh had I thought such ills could e'er ensue
Perhaps I should have learn'd to bear them too?
520 Now grant me, Anna, grant this one request!
False man! his friendship you alone possest;
To you his heart was open, none but you,
The soft access, the pliant moment knew.
Go sister then, my haughty foe intreat,
525 Tell him to Troy I sent no hostile fleet;
Nor yet, at Aulis, was I one that swore,
United vengeance to the Dardan shore.
Have I disturb'd his father's sacred shade,
That to be heard--not mere--in vain I've pray'd?
530 Tho' clos'd his ears to me, can be deny
This last, this least request! where would he fly?
Bid him remain till wintry storms subside,
Till kinder breezes, smooth the ruffled tide.
535 The nuptial vow, which he so vainly swore,
His plighted faith no longer I implore,
Nor yet his Latian kingdom to forego:
Some fruitless space, some breathing time for woe,
'Till fate have thought the wretch subdu'd to grieve,
Is all I beg--Obtain this last reprieve--
540 For pity gain it,--and the short