Which chased the clouds, and show'd the sun,When Hannibal o'er Italy Ran, as swift flames o'er pine-woods run,Or Eurus o'er Sicilia's sea.Henceforth, by fortune aiding toil,Rome's prowess grew: her fanes, laid wasteBy Punic sacrilege and spoil,Beheld at length their gods replaced.Then the false Libyan own'd his doom:—“Weak deer, the wolves' predestined prey,Blindly we rush on foes, from whom'Twere triumph won to steal away.That race which, strong from Ilion's fires,Its gods, on Tuscan waters tost,