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60 No—though no glory be to gain

From vengeance on a woman ta'en,

Yet he that rids the world of guilt

May claim the praise of blood well spilt:

'Twere joy to satiate righteous ire,

And slake my country's funeral fire.'

Thus was I raving, past control,

In aimless turbulence of soul,

When sudden dawning on the night

(Ne'er had I known her face so bright)

My mother flashed upon my sight,

Confessed a goddess, with the mien

And stature that in heaven are seen:

Reproachfully my hand she pressed,

And thus from roseate lips addressed:

'My son, what cruel wrongs excite

Your wrath to such pernicious height?

What mean you by this madness? where

Left you that love to me you bear?

And will you not at least inquire

What fate betides your time-worn sire?

If your Creusa still survive?

If young Ascanius be alive?

All these are trembling as for life,

With Grecian bands around them rife,

And, but for me, had sunk o'erpowered

By flame, or by the sword devoured.

Not the loathed charms of Sparta's dame,

Nor Paris, victim of your blame,—

No, 'tis the Gods, the Gods destroy

This mighty realm, and pull down Troy.

Behold! for I will purge the haze

That darkles round your mortal gaze

And blunts its keenness—mark me still,

Nor disobey your mother's will—