Am I alone by Fate ordain’d to know

Uninterrupted care, and endless woe?

Now from Tydidès’ spear I feel the wound:

Now Ilium’s tow’rs the hostile flames surround:

Troy laid in dust, my exil’d son I mourn,

Through angry seas, and raging billows borne;

O’er the wide deep his wand’ring course he bends;

Now to the sullen shades of Styx descends.

With Turnus driv’n at last fierce wars to wage,

Or rather with unpitying Juno’s rage.

But why record I now my ancient woes?

Sense of past ills in present fears I lose;

On me their points the impious daggers throw;

Forbid it, gods, repel the direful blow:

If by curst weapons Numa’s priest expires,

No longer shall ye burn, ye vestal fires.

While such complainings Cypria’s grief disclose;

In each celestial breast compassion rose:

Nor gods can alter fate’s resistless will;

Yet they foretold, by signs, th’ approaching ill.

Dreadful were heard, among the clouds, alarms

Of echoing trumpets, and of clashing arms;

The sun’s pale image gave so faint a light.

That the sad earth was almost veil’d in night;

The Aether’s face with fiery meteors glow’d;

With storms of hail were mingled drops of blood!

A dusky hue the morning star o’erspread,

And the moon’s orb was stain’d with spots of red;

In ev’ry place portentous shrieks were heard,

The fatal warnings of th’ infernal bird:

In ev’ry place the marble melts to tears;

While in the groves, rever’d through length of years,

Boding, and awful sounds, the ear invade;

And solemn music warbles through the shade;

No victim can atone the impious age,

No sacrifice the wrathful gods assuage;

Dire wars and civil fury threat the state:

And ev’ry omen points out Caesar’s fate:

Around each hallow’d shrine and sacred dome,

Night-howling dogs disturb the peaceful gloom;

Their silent seats the wand’ring shades forsake,

And fearful tremblings the rock’d city shake.

Yet could not, by these prodigies, be broke

The plotted charm, or staid the fatal stroke;

Their swords th’ assassins in the temple draw;

Their murd’ring hands nor gods nor temples awe;

This sacred place their bloody weapons stain,

And virtue falls before the altar slain.

’Twas now fair Cypria, with her woes opprest,

In raging anguish smote her heav’nly breast;

While with distracting tears the goddess try’d

Her hero in th’ ethereal cloud to hide,

The cloud which youthful Paris did conceal,

When Meneläus urg’d the threat’ning steel!

The cloud, which once deceiv’d Tydidès sight,

And sav’d Aeneas in th’ unequal fight.

When Jove:—‘In vain, fair daughter, you essay

To o’er-rule destiny’s unconquer’d sway:

Your doubts to banish, enter Fate’s abode:

A privilege to heav’nly pow’rs allow’d;

There shall you see the records grav’d in length,