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In desperate grief Æneas rends
His raiment, and his hands extends:
'Dread Sire, if Ilium's lorn estate
Deserve not yet thine utter hate,
If still thine ancient faithfulness
Give heed to mortals in distress,
O let the fleet escape the flame!
O save from death Troy's dying name!
Or, if my deeds the stroke demand,
Then, Father, bare thy red right hand,
Send forth thy lightning, and o'erwhelm
The poor remainder of our realm!'
Scarce had he ended, when from high
Pours down a burst of rain,
And thunder rolling round the sky
Shakes rising ground and plain:
All heaven lets loose its watery store;
The clouds are massed, the south winds roar:
With sluicing rain the ships are drenched,
Till every spark at last is quenched,
And all the barks, save only four,
Escape the fiery conqueror.

But good Æneas, all distraught
By that too cruel blow,
In dire perplexity of thought,
Alternates to and fro,
Still doubting should he take his rest,
Unmindful of the fates' behest,
In Sicily, or make once more
An effort for the Italian shore.
Then Nautes, whose experienced mind
Pallas made sage beyond his kind,
Interpreting what Heaven's dread ire
Might threaten, or the fates require,