Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/115

Where lies the way to Italy,
The shortest o'er the deeps.
The sun comes down, and every height
Is darkened by advancing night.
On earth we stretch us by the tide,
His several oar at each one's side,
Then take our cheer: and slumberous dews
Descend upon our weary crews.
Night had not climbed heaven's topmost steep,
When Palinurus starts from sleep,
Observes each wind with anxious care,
And questions all that stirs in air:
Each star that roams the etherial plain
His eye has noted and explored,
Arcturus, Hyads, and the Wain,
And bright Orion's golden sword:
He sees all calm, without a cloud;
Then from the stern he signals loud.
We shift our camp, attempt the way,
And to the breeze our vans display.
Now the red morning from the sky
Had chased the starry host,
When from afar dim hills we spy,
Italia's lowly coast:
'Italia!' cries Achates first:
'Italia!' peals the joyous burst
Of welcome from each crew:
My sire Anchises wreathes with flowers
A brimming cup, and calls the powers,
Full on the stern in view:
'Gods of the sea, the land, the air,
Waft our smooth course with breezes fair.'
The winds blow freshly o'er the sky:
The port grows wider to the eye,
And on the cliff in prospect plain
Is seen Minerva's hallowed fane.