Page:Virgil's Pastorals, Georgics and Aeneis - Dryden (1709) - volume 2.djvu/117

Æn. I. When Venus saw, she with a lowly Look, Not free from Tears, her Heav'nly Sire bespoke. O King of Gods and Men, whose awful Hand, Disperses Thunder on the Seas and Land; Disposing all with absolute Command: How cou'd my Pious Son thy Pow'r incense, Or what, alas! is vanish'd Troy's Offence? Our hope of Italy not only lost, On various Seas, by various Tempests tost, But shut from ev'ry Shoar, and barr'd from ev'ry Coast. You promis'd once, a Progeny Divine, Of Romans, rising from the Trojan Line, In after-times shou'd hold the World in awe, And to the Land and Ocean give the Law. How is your Doom revers'd, which eas'd my Care; When Troy was ruin'd in that cruel War? Then Fates to Fates I cou'd oppose; but now, When Fortune still pursues her former Blow, What can I hope? What worse can still succeed? What end of Labours has your Will decreed? Antenor, from the midst of Grecian Hosts, Could pass secure, and pierce th' Illyrian Coasts: Where rowling down the Steep, Timavus raves, And through nine Channels disembogues his Waves.335 [sic] At length he founded Padua's happy Seat, And gave his Trojans a secure Retreat: There fix'd their Arms, and there renew'd their Name, And there in Quiet rules, and crown'd with Fame.