e on; my goddess mother pointed
the way; scarce seven survive the shattering of wave and wind. Myself
unknown, destitute, driven from Europe and Asia, I wander over the
Libyan wilderness.'

But staying longer complaint, Venus thus broke in on his half-told
sorrows:

'Whoso thou art, not hated I think of the immortals [388-420]dost thou
draw the breath of life, who hast reached the Tyrian city. Only go on,
and betake thee hence to the courts of the queen. For I declare to thee
thy comrades are restored, thy fleet driven back into safety by the
shifted northern gales, except my parents were pretenders, and
unavailing the augury they taught me. Behold these twelve swans in
joyous line, whom, stooping from the tract of heaven, the bird of Jove
fluttered over the open sky; now in long train they seem either to take
the ground or already to look down on the ground they took. As they
again disport with clapping wings, and utter their notes as they circle
the sky in company, even so do these ships and crews of thine either lie
fast in harbour or glide under full sail into the harbour mouth. Only go
on, and turn thy steps where the pathway leads thee.'

Speaking she turned away, and her neck shone roseate, her immortal
tresses breathed the fragrance of deity; her raiment fell flowing down
to her feet, and the godhead was manifest in her tread. He knew her for
his mother, and with this cry pursued her flight: 'Thou also merciless!
Why mockest thou thy son so often in feigned likeness? Why is it
forbidden to clasp hand in hand, to hear and utter true speech?' Thus
reproaching her he bends his steps towards the city. But Venus girt them
in their going with dull mist, and shed round them a deep divine
clothing of cloud, that none might see them, none touch them, or work
delay, or ask wherefore they came. Herself she speeds through the sky to
Paphos, and joyfully revisits her habitation, where the temple and its
hundred altars steam with Sabaean incense, and are fresh with fragrance
of chaplets in her worship.

They meantime have hasted along where the pathway points, and now were
climbing the hill which hangs enormous over the city, and looks down on
its facing towers. [421-456]Aeneas marvels at the mass of building,
pastoral huts once of old, marvels at the gateways and clatter of the
pavements. The Tyrians are hot at work to trace the walls, to rear the
citadel, and roll up great stones by hand, or to choose a spot for their