hand an impulse to the lofty stern, well knowing the due
measure of force: on it speeds over the wave, fleeter than 25
dart and wind-swift arrow both. The rest in order mend
their speed. Wondering he pauses, the great Trojan of
Anchises’ line, yet cheers his soul with the omen. Then,
looking to the vault above, he prays in brief: “Gracious
mother of the gods, lady of Ida, whose joy is in Dindymus, 30
and in turreted cities and harnessed lions at thy
bridle-rein, be thou now to me the controller of the fight,
do thou bring the presage nigh, and walk beside the