Caked were their throats With dust, and panting; and one little drop Had made him envied.

"Wretch, and dost thou deem Me wanting in a brave man's heart ?" he cried, "Me only in this throng?
And have I seemed Tender, unfit to bear the morning heat?
He who would quench his thirst 'mid such a host, Doth most deserve its pangs." Then in his wrath Dashed down the helmet, and the scanty spring, Thus by their leader spurned, sufficed for all.
Now had they reached that temple which possess Sole in all Libya, th' untutored tribes Of Garamantians.

Here holds his seat (So saith the story) a prophetic Jove, Wielding no thunderbolts, nor like to ours, The Libyan Hammen of the curved horn.
No wealth adorns his fane by Afric tribes Bestowed, nor glittering hoard of Eastern gems.
Though rich Arabians, Ind and Ethiop Know him alone as Jove, still is he poor Holding his shrine by riches undefiled Through time, and god as of the olden days Spurns all the wealth of Rome.

That here some god Dwells, witnesses the only grove That buds in Libya -- for that which grows Upon the arid dust which Leptis parts From Berenice, knows no leaves; alone Hammon uprears a wood; a fount the cause Which with its waters binds the crumbling soil.
Yet shall the Sun when poised upon the height Strike through the foliage: hardly can the tree Protect its trunk, and to a little space His rays draw in the circle of the shade.
Here have men found the spot where that high band Solstitial divides in middle sky (15) The zodiac stars: not here oblique their course, Nor Scorpion rises straighter than the Bull, Nor to the Scales does Ram give back his hours, Nor does Astraea bid the Fishes sink More slowly down: but watery Capricorn Is equal with the Crab, and with the Twins The Archer; neither does the Lion rise Above Aquarius.

But the race that dwells Beyond the fervour of the Libyan fires Sees to the South that shadow which with us Falls to the North: slow Cynosure sinks (16) For them below the deep; and, dry with us, The Wagon plunges; far from either pole, No star they know that does not seek the main, But all the constellations in their course Whirl to their vision through the middle sky.
Before the doors the Eastern peoples stood Seeking from horned Jove to know their fates: Yet to the Roman chief they yielded place, Whose comrades prayed him to entreat the gods Famed through the Libyan world, and judge the voice Renowned from distant ages.