shrine.” She said, and was mute. A cold
shudder runs through the Teucrians’ iron frames, and their
king pours out his very soul in prayer: “Phœbus, ever
Troy’s pitying friend in her cruel agonies—thou who
didst level Paris’ Dardan[207] bow and string his Dardan arm 35
against the vast frame of Æacides[208]—by thy guidance I
have penetrated all these unknown seas that swathe
mighty continents. The Massylian tribes, thrust away by
Nature out of view, and the quicksands that environ their
coasts—now at last our hands are on the flying skirts of