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Marvelling, the lofty gates surveys,
The pavements, and the loud highways.
On press the Tyrians, each and all:
Some raise aloft the city's wall,
Or at the fortress' base of rock
Toil, heaving up the granite block:
While some for dwellings mark the ground,
Select a site and trench it round,
Or choose the rulers and the law,
And the young senate clothe with awe.
They hollow out the haven; they
The theatre's foundations lay,
And fashion from the quarry's side
Tall columns, germs of scenic pride.
So bees, when spring-time is begun,
Ply their warm labour in the sun,
What time along the flowery mead
Their nation's infant hope they lead;
Or with clear honey charge each cell,
And make the hive with sweetness swell,
The workers of their loads relieve,
Or chase the drones, that gorge and thieve:
With toil the busy scene ferments,
And fragrance breathes from thymy scents.
'O happy they,' Æneas cries,
As to the roofs he lifts his eyes,
'Whose promised walls already rise!'
Then enters, 'neath his misty screen,
And threads the crowd, of all unseen.

Midway within the city stood
A spreading grove of hallowed wood,
The spot where first the Punic train,
Fresh from the shock of storm and main,
The token Juno bad foretold
Dug up, the head of charger bold: