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162 Swift breaks Eumelus on the games

With tidings of the fleet in flames,

And, looking back, the gazers spy

The smoke-clouds blackening on the sky.

Ascanius first, as o'er the mead

He leads his young array,

Spurs to the camp his fiery steed,

Nor can his guardians, blown with speed,

His headlong impulse stay:

And 'Wretched countrywomen! whence'

He cries 'this rage that robs your sense?

No Greek encampment you consume:

No—'tis your own dear hopes ye doom.

Look! your Ascanius speaks!' before

His feet upon the sand

He flung the helm he lately wore

While marshalling his band.

Æneas and the Trojan host

Come hurrying, hasting to the coast.

The guilty matrons, winged with dread,

Along the devious shores are fled,

Hide in the tangles of the grove,

Or huddling seek some rocky cove:

Their frenzied enterprise they rue,

And loathe the blessed light of heaven;

With sobering eyes their friends they view,

And Juno from their souls is driven.

Yet still with unabated power

The fire continues to devour:

'Twixt the soaked timbers oozes slow

Thick vapour from the smouldering tow;

The threads of pestilential flame

Steal downward through each vessel's frame;

Nor all the efforts of the brave

Nor streaming floods avail to save.