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110 And now this Paris, with his band

Of gallants, like himself, unmanned,

His essenced hair in Lydian wise

With turban bound, enjoys the prize:

We kneel in temples known as thine,

And nurse a fame we dream divine.'

Thus at the altar as he prayed

The Father heard his prayer,

And, turning, Carthage town surveyed,

And that besotted pair:

Then summons Mercury to fulfil

The charge of his almighty will:

'Go forth, my son, command the gales,

And spread for flight thy feathery sails;

Haste to the Dardan chief who waits

In Carthage, heedless of the fates

That grant him other crowns, and bear

My mandate through the bounding air.

No recreant his fair mother swore

Our eyes should see in him she bore

Twice from the grasp of doom:

No—but a chief of force to sway

Italia, charged with battle fray,

With empire in its womb,

The pride of Teucer's blood maintain,

And bow all nations to his reign.

If zeal no more his soul inflame

To labour for his own fair fame,

Yet can the sire behold his child

Of Rome's imperial hills beguiled?

What prospect lures him, day by day

Thus 'mid a hostile race to stay,

Blind to the hopes by fate decreed,

Lavinium's realm, Ausonia's seed?