Below th' horizon the Sicilian isle
just sank from view, as for the open sea
with heart of hope they sailed, and every ship
clove with its brazen beak the salt, white waves.
But Juno of her everlasting wound
knew no surcease, but from her heart of pain
thus darkly mused: “Must I, defeated, fail
of what I will, nor turn the Teucrian King
from Italy away? Can Fate oppose?
Had Pallas power to lay waste in flame
the Argive fleet and sink its mariners,
revenging but the sacrilege obscene
by Ajax wrought, Oileus' desperate son?
She, from the clouds, herself Jove's lightning threw,
scattered the ships, and ploughed the sea with storms.
Her foe, from his pierced breast out-breathing fire,
in whirlwind on a deadly rock she flung.
But I, who move among the gods a queen,
Jove's sister and his spouse, with one weak tribe
make war so long! Who now on Juno calls?
What suppliant gifts henceforth her altars crown?”
Vergil. Aeneid. Theodore C. Williams. trans. Boston. Houghton Mifflin Co. 1910.
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