And Jove heard him Making his prayer and clinging to the altars, And turned his eyes to Carthage and the lovers Forgetful of their better reputation. He summoned Mercury:--“Go forth, my son, Descend on wing and wind to Tyrian Carthage, Speak to the Trojan leader, loitering there Unheedful of the cities given by fate. Take him my orders through the rapid winds: It was not for this his lovely mother saved him Twice from Greek arms; she promised he would be A ruler, in a country loud with war, Pregnant with empire; he would sire a race From Teucer’s noble line; he would ordain Law for the world. If no such glory moves him, If his own fame and fortune count as nothing, Does he, a father, grudge his son the towers Of Rome to be? What is the fellow doing? With what ambition wasting time in Libya? Let him set sail. That’s all; convey the message.”
Before he ended, Mercury made ready To carry out the orders of his father; He strapped the golden sandals on, the pinions To bear him over sea and land, as swift As the breath of the wind; he took the wand, which summons Pale ghosts from Hell, or sends them there, denying Or giving sleep, unsealing dead men’s eyes, Useful in flight through wind and stormy cloud, And so came flying till he saw the summit And towering sides of Atlas, rugged giant With heaven on his neck, whose head and shoulders Are dark with fir, ringed with black cloud, and beaten With wind and rain, and laden with the whiteness Of falling snow, with rivers running over His agèd chin, and the rough beard ice-stiffened. Here first on level wing the god paused briefly, Poised, plummeted to ocean, like a bird That skims the water’s surface, flying low By shore and fishes’ rocky breeding-ground, So Mercury darted between earth and heaven To Libya’s sandy shore, cutting the wind From the home of Maia’s father. Soon as the winged sandals skim the rooftops, He sees Aeneas founding towers, building New homes for Tyrians; his sword is studded With yellow jasper; he wears across his shoulders A cloak of burning crimson, and golden threads Run through it, the royal gift of the rich queen. Mercury wastes no time:--“What are you doing, Forgetful of your kingdom and your fortunes, Building for Carthage? Woman-crazy fellow, The ruler of the gods, the great compeller Of heaven and earth, has sent me from Olympus With no more word than this: what are you doing, With what ambition wasting time in Libya? If your own fame and fortune count as nothing, Think of Ascanius at least, whose kingdom In Italy, whose Roman land, are waiting As promise justly due.” He spoke, and vanished Into thin air. Apalled, amazed, Aeneas Is stricken dumb; his hair stands up in terror, His voice sticks in his throat. He is more than eager To flee that pleasant land, awed by the warning Of the divine command. But how to do it? How get around that passionate queen? What opening Try first? His mind runs out in all directions, Shifting and veering. Finally, he has it, Or thinks he has: he calls his comrades to him, The leaders, bids them quietly prepare The fleet for voyage, meanwhile saying nothing About the new activity; since Dido Is unaware, has no idea that passion As strong as theirs is on the verge of breaking, He will see what he can do, find the right moment To let her know, all in good time. Rejoicing, The captains move to carry out the orders.