ke another Paris, fire a new-born Troy."

XLIV. She spake, and earthward darting, fierce and fell,
Calls sad Alecto from her dark retreat
Among the Furies in the shades of Hell.
Sweet are war's sorrows to her soul, and sweet
Are evil deeds, and hatred and deceit.
E'en Pluto, e'en her sister-fiends detest
The monstrous shape, so many forms complete
The grisly horrors of that hateful pest,
So many a coal-black snake sprouts from her threatening crest.

XLV. Her Juno finds, and thus new rage inspires:
"Grant, virgin daughter of eternal Night,
This boon, the labour that thy soul desires.
Lest here my fame and honour lose their might,
And Troy gain Italy, and craft unite
Troy's prince with Latium's heiress. Thou can'st turn
Fond hearts to feuds, and brethren arm for fight.
Thou know'st, for savage is thy mood and stern,
To breed domestic strife and happy homes to burn.

XLVI. "A thousand names, a thousand means hast thou
Of mischief. Search thy fertile breast, and break
The plighted peace. Breed calumnies, and sow
The strife. Let youth desire, demand and take
Thy weapons."--Wreathed with many a Gorgon snake,
To Latium's court Alecto flew unseen,
And by Amata's chamber sate, nor spake;
While, musing on her new-come guests, the queen,
Wroth for her Turnus, boiled with woman's rage and spleen.

XLVII. At her the goddess from her dark locks threw
A snake, and lodged the monster in her breast,
To make her fury all the house undo.
In glides, impalpable, the maddening pest
Between the dainty bosom and the vest,
Breathing its venom. Like a necklace thin
It hung, all golden, like a wreath, caressed
Her temples, like a ribbon, wove within
Her hair its slippery coils, and wandered o'er her skin.

XLVIII. So, while the taint, first stealing through her frame,
Slipped in, with slimy venom, and the pest
Thrilled every sense, and wrapped her bones in flame,
Nor yet her soul had caught it, or confessed
The fiery fever that consumed her breast;
Soft, like a mother, and with tears, she cried,
Grieved for her child, and pondering with unrest
The Phrygian match, "Ah, woe the day betide,
If Teucrian exiles win Lavinia for a bride!

XLIX. "Hast thou no pity for thy child, nor thee,
O father! nor her mother, left forlorn,
When, with the rising North-wind, o'er the sea
Yon faithles