stung by the bitter tidings, is said, as he stood before the 20
altars, with the majesty of Heaven all around him, to have
prayed long and earnestly to Jove with upturned hands:—“Jove,
the Almighty, to whom in this my reign the
Moorish race, feasting on embroidered couches, pour out
the offering of the vintage, seest thou this? or is our dread 25
of thee, Father, when thou hurlest thy lightnings, an idle
panic? are those aimless fires in the clouds that appal us?
have their confused rumblings no meaning? See here:
a woman, who, wandering in our territories, bought leave