Here, while the anchor’d vessel safely rides, (For now the ruffled deep portends a storm,) The spiry god unfolds his spheric form, Through large indentings draws his lubric train, And seeks the refuge of Apollo’s fane; The fane is situate on the yellow shore: When the sea smiled, and the winds raged no more, He leaves his father’s hospitable lands, And furrows, with his rattling scales, the sands Along the coast; at length the ship regains, And sails to Tibur, and Lavinium’s plains. Here mingling crowds to meet their patron came, Ev’n the chaste guardians of the Vestal flame, From every part tumultuous they repair, And joyful acclamations rend the air: Along the flow’ry banks, on either side, Where the tall ship floats on the swelling tide, Disposed in decent order altars rise, And crackling incense, as it mounts the skies, The air with sweets refreshes; while the knife, Warm with the victim’s blood, lets out the streaming life.