In ages gone an ancient city stood—
Carthage, a Tyrian seat, which from afar
made front on Italy and on the mouths
of Tiber's stream; its wealth and revenues
were vast, and ruthless was its quest of war.
'T is said that Juno, of all lands she loved,
most cherished this,—not Samos' self so dear.
Here were her arms, her chariot; even then
a throne of power o'er nations near and far,
if Fate opposed not, 't was her darling hope
to 'stablish here; but anxiously she heard
that of the Trojan blood there was a breed
then rising, which upon the destined day
should utterly o'erwhelm her Tyrian towers,
a people of wide sway and conquest proud
should compass Libya's doom;—such was the web
the Fatal Sisters spun. Such was the fear
of Saturn's daughter, who remembered well
what long and unavailing strife she waged
for her loved Greeks at Troy. Nor did she fail
to meditate th' occasions of her rage,
and cherish deep within her bosom proud
its griefs and wrongs: the choice by Paris made;
her scorned and slighted beauty; a whole race
rebellious to her godhead; and Jove's smile
that beamed on eagle-ravished Ganymede.
With all these thoughts infuriate, her power
pursued with tempests o'er the boundless main
the Trojans, though by Grecian victor spared
and fierce Achilles; so she thrust them far
from Latium; and they drifted, Heaven-impelled,
year after year, o'er many an unknown sea—
O labor vast, to found the Roman line!
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