Thou too, Caieta, dying, to our shore, AEneas' nurse, hast given a deathless fame, E'en now thine honour guards it, as of yore, Still doth thy tomb in great Hesperia frame Glory--if that be glory--for thy name.
Here good AEneas paid his dues aright, And raised a mound, and now, as evening came, Sails forth; the faint winds whisper to the night; Clear shines the Moon, and tips the trembling waves with light.
II.

They skirt the coast, where Circe, maiden bright, The Sun's rich daughter, wakes with melodies The groves that none may enter.

There each night, As nimbly through the slender warp she plies The whistling shuttle, through her chambers rise The flames of odorous cedar.

Thence the roar Of lions, raging at their chains, the cries Of bears close-caged, and many a bristly boar, The yells of monstrous wolves at midnight fill the shore.
III.

All these with potent herbs the cruel queen Had stripped of man's similitude, to wear A brutal figure, and a bestial mien.
But kindly Neptune, with protecting care, And loth to see the pious Trojans bear A doom so vile, such prodigies as these, Lest, borne perchance into the bay, they near The baneful shore, fills out with favouring breeze The sails, and speeds their flight across the boiling seas.
IV.