'Twas night; the tired world rested.

Far and nigh All slept, the cattle and the fowls of air.
Stretched on a bank, beneath the cold, clear sky, Lay good AEneas, fain at length to share Late slumber, troubled by the war with care.
When, 'twixt the poplars, where the fair stream flows, With azure mantle, and with sedge-crowned hair, The aged Genius of the place uprose, And, standing by, thus spake, and comforted his woes: V.

"Blest seed of Heaven! who from the foemen's hand Our Troy dost bring, and to an endless date Preservest Pergama; whom Latium's land Hath looked for, and Laurentum's fields await, Here, doubt not, are thy homegods, here hath Fate Thy home decreed.

Let not war's terrors seem To daunt thee.

Heaven is weary of its hate; Its storms are spent.