"If glory cannot tempt him, nor inflame His soul to win such greatness, if indeed He takes no trouble for his own fair fame, Shall he, a father, envy to his seed The towers of Rome, by destiny decreed?
What schemes he now?
what hope the chief constrains To linger 'mid a hostile race, nor heed Ausonia's sons and the Lavinian plains?
Go, bid him sail; enough; that word the sum contains." XXXI.

Jove spake.

Cyllenius to his feet binds fast His golden sandals, that aloft in flight O'er sea and shore upbear him with the blast, Then takes his rod--the rod of mystic might, That calls from Hell or plunges into night The pallid ghosts, gives sleep or bids it fly, And lifts the dead man's eyelids to the light.
Armed with that rod, he rules the clouds on high, And drives the scattered gales, and sails the stormy sky.
XXXII.

Now, borne along, beneath him he espies The sides precipitous and towering peak Of rugged Atlas, who upholds the skies.
Round his pine-covered forehead, wild and bleak, The dark clouds settle and the storm-winds shriek.
His shoulders glisten with the mantling snow, Dark roll the torrents down his aged cheek, Seamed with the wintry ravage, and below, Stiff with the gathered ice his hoary beard doth show.
XXXIII.

Poised on his wings, here first Cyllenius stood, Then downward shot, and in the salt sea spray Dipped like a sea-gull, who, in quest of food, Searches the teeming shore-cliffs for his prey, And scours the rocks and skims along the bay.
So swiftly now, between the earth and skies, Leaving his mother's sire, his airy way Cyllene's god on cleaving pinions plies, As o'er the Libyan sands along the wind he flies.
XXXIV.