"The South-wind fills the canvas; on we fly Where breeze and pilot drive us through the deep.
Soon, crowned with woods, Zacynthos we espy, Dulichium, Same and the rock-bound steep Of Neritos.

Past Ithaca we creep, Laertes' realms, and curse the land that bred Ulysses, cause of all the woes we weep.
Soon, where Leucate lifts her cloud-capt head, Looms forth Apollo's fane, the seaman's name of dread.
XXXVII.

"Tired out we seek the little town, and run The sterns ashore and anchor in the bay, Saved beyond hope and glad the land is won, And lustral rites, with blazing altars, pay To Jove, and make the shores of Actium gay With Ilian games, as, like our sires, we strip And oil our sinews for the wrestler's play.
Proud, thus escaping from the foemen's grip, Past all the Argive towns, through swarming Greeks, to slip.
XXXVIII.

"Meanwhile the sun rolls round the mighty year, And wintry North-winds vex the waves once more.
In front, above the temple-gates I rear The brazen shield which once great Abas bore, And mark the deed in writing on the door, _'AEneas these from conquering Greeks hath ta'en';_ Then bid my comrades quit the port and shore, And man the benches.

They with rival strain And slanting oar-blades sweep the levels of the main.
XXXIX.