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too, Æneas' nurse of yore,

In death hast glorified our shore,

Caieta, honoured dame:

Still glory haunts thy place of rest:

Marked by thy name, thy relics blest

In the great country of the west

Repose—if that be fame.

But good Æneas, soon as paid

Due tribute to the well-loved shade

And funeral mound upreared,

Waits till the seas grow calm at eve,

Then spreads his sail, constrained to leave

The haven, thus endeared.

The breezes freshen toward the night,

Nor doth the moon refuse

Her guiding lamp: its tremulous light

The glancing deep bestrews.

Next, skirting still the shore, they run

Fair Circe's magic coast along,

Where she, bright daughter of the sun,

Her forest fastness thrills with song,

And for a nightly blaze consumes

Rich cedar in her stately rooms,

While, sounding shrill, the comb is sped

From end to end adown the.