BOOK VII.
Thou 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 therad[errata 1].
