A wasting plague infected Latium’s skies; Pale, bloodless looks were seen, with ghastly eyes; The dire disease’s marks each visage wore, And the pure blood was changed to putrid gore: In vain were human remedies applied; In vain the power of healing herbs was tried: Wearied with death, they seek celestial aid, And visit Phoebus in his Delphic shade; In the world’s centre sacred Delphos stands, And gives its oracles to distant lands: Here they implore the god, with fervent vows, His salutary power to interpose, And end a great afflicted city’s woes. The holy temple sudden tremours proved; The laurel grove and all its quivers moved; In hollow sounds the priestess thus began, And through each bosom thrilling horrors ran: “The assistance, Roman, which you here implore, Seek from another, and a nearer shore; Relief must be implored, and succour won, Not from Apollo, but Apollo’s son; My son, to Latium borne, shall bring redress; Go with good omens, and expect success.”