📔 Aeneid

Heav'ns what a spring was in his Arm, to throw: / How high he held his Shield, and rose at ev'ry blow!

My guilt thy growing virtues did defame; / My blackness blotted thy unblemish'd name.

The Heroe, looking on the left, espy'd / A lofty Tow'r, and strong on ev'ry side / […] Vain is the force of Man, and Heav'ns as van, / To crush the Pillars which the Pile sustain. / Sublime on these a Tow'r of Steel is rear'd; / And dire Tisiphone these keeps the Ward.

Shall Turnus then such endless Toil sustain, / In fighting Fields, and conquer Towns in vain:

His Sons, who seek the Tyrant to sustain, / And long for Arbitrary Lords again,

Adoring first the Genius of the Place, / Then Earth, the Mother of the Heav'nly Race, / The Nymphs, and native Godheads yet unknown, / And Night, and all the Stars that gild her sable Throne,