The hardy Trojans feel a cold shiver go through them,
Their prince from the depths of his heart beseeches
The god: “Phoebus, you always had pity for Troy
And her troubles, it was you who steadied
Paris’ aim and directed the arrow
Into Achilles, you who were pilot
As I entered sea after sea, skirting the coasts
Of distant land masses, remotest Massylia,
The sandbanked Syrtian gulfs. Here then at last
We set foot on Italia that seemed for so long
The unreachable: henceforth let Trojan ill fortune
Be a thing of the past. For now, all you gods
And goddesses, you to whom Troy’s name and fame
Gave affront, divine law constrains you
To spare us, the last of its relicts. And you,
Seeress most holy, to whom the future lies open,
Grant what I ask (no more in the end than my fate
Has assigned): home ground for my people
In Latium, refuge for our wandering gods
And all Troy ever held sacred. Then to Phoebus
Apollo, and Diana, I will set up a temple
In solid marble and inaugurate feast days In the god’s honour.
And for you, O all gracious one,
A sanctuary will be established, a vault
Where I shall preserve divinations from lots
And oracles you’ll have vouchsafed to my people;
And in your service I shall ordain chosen men.
Yet one thing I ask of you: not to inscribe
Your visions in verse on the leaves
In case they go frolicking off
In the wind. Chant them yourself, I beseech you.”
So saying, Aeneas fell silent.
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