Over the earth all weary living things, all birds and flocks were fast asleep when captain Aeneas, his heart racked by the threat of war, lay down on a bank beneath 30 the chilly arc of the sky and at long last indulged his limbs in sleep. Before his eyes the god of the lovely river, old Tiber himself, seemed to rise from among the poplar leaves, gowned in his blue-grey linen fine as mist with a shady crown of reeds to wreathe his hair, and greeted Aeneas to ease him of his anguish:
