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It floated once, till Phoebus fix'd the sides To rooted earth, and now it braves the tides. Here, borne by friendly winds, we come ashore, With needful ease our weary limbs restore, And the Sun's temple and his town adore. "Anius, the priest and king, with laurel crown'd, His hoary locks with purple fillets bound, Who saw my sire the Delian shore ascend, Came forth with eager haste to meet his friend; Invites him to his palace; and, in sign Of ancient love, their plighted hands they join. Then to the temple of the god I went, And thus, before the shrine, my vows present: 'Give, O Thymbraeus, give a resting place To the sad relics of the Trojan race; A seat secure, a region of their own, A lasting empire, and a happier town. Where shall we fix? where shall our labors end? Whom shall we follow, and what fate attend? Let not my pray'rs a doubtful answer find; But in clear auguries unveil thy mind.' Scarce had I said: he shook the holy ground, The laurels, and the lofty hills around; And from the tripos rush'd a bellowing sound. Prostrate we fell; confess'd the present god, Who gave this answer from his dark abode: 'Undaunted youths, go, seek that mother earth From which your ancestors derive their birth. The soil that sent you forth, her ancient race In her old bosom shall again embrace. Thro' the wide world th' Aeneian house shall reign, And children's children shall the crown sustain.' Thus Phoebus did our future fates disclose: A mighty tumult, mix'd with joy, arose. "All are concern'd to know what place the god Assign'd, and where determin'd our abode. My father, long revolving in his mind The race and lineage of the Trojan kind, Thus answer'd their demands: 'Ye princes, hear Your pleasing fortune, and dispel your fear. The fruitful isle of Crete, well known to fame, Sacred of old to Jove's imperial name, In the mid ocean lies, with large command, |