Weary and worn with wanderings and care,
Mourning his father still, Æneas lay
Sleepless, when lo! visible as in day,
Though up the heavens drove her car black Night,
Anchises, lit with an unearthly light:
“My Son,” he said, “here am I by Jove’s grace;
He pities, late, the sorrows of our race,
And has sent me to comfort and advise.
Let a new Troy in Sicily arise,
Peopled by many who would stay behind.