Chapter 67

Now, in a secret vale, the Trojan sees A sep’rate grove, thro’ which a gentle breeze Plays with a passing breath, and whispers thro’ the trees; And, just before the confines of the wood, The gliding Lethe leads her silent flood. About the boughs an airy nation flew, Thick as the humming bees, that hunt the golden dew; In summer’s heat on tops of lilies feed, And creep within their bells, to suck the balmy seed: The winged army roams the fields around; The …