'T was on a solemn day: th' Arcadian states,
The king and prince, without the city gates,
Then paid their off'rings in a sacred grove
To Hercules, the warrior son of Jove.
Thick clouds of rolling smoke involve the skies,
And fat of entrails on his altar fries.
But, when they saw the ships that stemm'd the flood,
And glitter'd thro' the covert of the wood,
They rose with fear, and left th' unfinish'd feast,
Till dauntless Pallas reassur'd the rest
To pay the rites. Himself without delay
A jav'lin seiz'd, and singly took his way;
Then gain'd a rising ground, and call'd from far:
“Resolve me, strangers, whence, and what you are;
Your bus'ness here; and bring you peace or war?”
High on the stern Aeneas his stand,
And held a branch of olive in his hand,
While thus he spoke: “The Phrygians' arms you see,
Expell'd from Troy, provok'd in Italy
By Latian foes, with war unjustly made;
At first affianc'd, and at last betray'd.
This message bear: ‘The Trojans and their chief
Bring holy peace, and beg the king's relief.’
Struck with so great a name, and all on fire,
The youth replies: “Whatever you require,
Your fame exacts. Upon our shores descend.
A welcome guest, and, what you wish, a friend.”
He said, and, downward hasting to the strand,
Embrac'd the stranger prince, and join'd his hand.
Conducted to the grove,
Vergil. Aeneid. John Dryden. trans. XXX. XXX. XXX.
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