Torn from the Tuscans by the Lydian race,
Who gave the name of Cære to the place,
Once Agyllina called. It flourished long
In pride of wealth, and warlike people strong,
Till cursed Mezentius, in a fatal hour,
Assumed the crown with arbitrary power.
What words can paint those execrable times-
The subjects' sufferings and the tyrant's crimes?
That blood, those murders, O ye gods, replace
On his own head and on his impious race.
The living and the dead at his command
Were coupled, face to face and hand to hand,
Till, choked with stench, in loathed embraces tied,
The lingering wretches pined away and died.
Thus, plunged in ills, and meditating more,
The people's patience tried, no longer bore
The raging monster, but with arms beset

His house, and vengeance and destruction threat.
They fire his palace; while the flame ascends
They force his guards and execute his friends.
He cleaves the crowd, and, favoured by the night,
To Turnus' friendly court directs his flight.
By just revenge the Tuscans, set on fire
With arms, their king to punishment require.

Their numerous troops, now mustered on the strand,
My counsel shall submit to your command.
Their navy swarms upon the coasts; they cry
To hoist their anchors, but the gods deny.
An ancient augur, skilled in future fate,
With these foreboding words restrains their hate :
'Ye brave in arms, ye Lydian blood, the flower
Of Tuscan youth, and choice of all their power,
Whom just revenge against Mezentius arms
To seek your tyrant's death by lawful arms-
Know this, no native of our land may lead
This powerful people. Seek a foreign head.'

Awed with these words, in camps they still abide,
And wait with longing looks their promised guide.
Tarchon, the Tuscan chief, to me has sent
Their crown and every regal ornament.
The people join their own with his desire,
And all my conduct as their king require.

But the chill blood that creeps within my veins,
And age, and listless limbs unfit for pains,
And a soul conscious of its own decay,
Have forced me to refuse imperial sway.

My Pallas were more fit to mount the throne,
And should, but he's a Sabine mother's son.
And half a native: but in you combine
A manly vigour, and a foreign line.

Where Fate and smiling Fortune show the way,
Pursue the ready path to sovereign sway.
The staff of my declining days, my son,
Shall make your good or ill success his own.
In fighting fields from you shall learn to dare;
And serve the hard apprenticeship of war.
Your matchless courage, and your conduct view;
And early shall begin to admire and copy you.
Besides, two hundred horse he shall command;
Though few a warlike and well-chosen band.
These in my name are listed : and my son
As many more has added in his own.'
Scarce had he said; Achates and his guest,
With downcast eyes their silent grief expressed,
Who short of succours, and in deep despair,
Shook at the dismal prospect of the war.
But his bright mother, from a breaking cloud
To cheer her issue, thundered thrice aloud.
Thrice forky lightning flashed along the sky;
And Tyrrhene trumpets thrice were heard on high.
Then gazing up, repeated peals they hear;
And, in a heaven serene, refulgent arms appear,
Reddening the skies, and glittering all around,
The tempered metals clash, and yield a silver sound.
The rest stood trembling, struck with awe divine,
Æneas only conscious to the sign,

Presaged the event; and joyful viewed above,
The accomplished promise of the Queen of Love.
Then, to the Arcadian king: "This prodigy
(Dismiss your fear) belongs alone to me.
Heaven calls me to the war; the expected sign
Is given of promised aid, and arms divine.
My goddess mother, whose indulgent care
Foresaw the dangers of the growing war,
This omen gave; when bright Vulcanian arms,
Fated from force of steel by Stygian charms,
Suspended, shone on high she then foreshowed
Approaching fights, and fields to float in blood.
Turnus shall dearly pay for faith forsworn;

And corpses, and swords, and shields, on Tiber born,
Shall choke his flood: now sound the loud alarms;
And Latian troops prepare your perjured arms."

He said, and rising from his homely throne,
The solemn rites of Hercules begun ;
And on his altars waked the sleeping fires;
Then cheerful to his household gods retires.
There offers chosen sheep. The Arcadian king
And Trojan youth the same oblations bring.
Next of his men and ships he makes review,
Draws out the best and ablest of the crew.
Down with the falling stream the refuse run,
To raise with joyful news his drooping son.
Steeds are prepared to mount the Trojan band,
Who wait their leader to the Tyrrhene land.
A sprightly courser, fairer than the rest,
The king himself presents his royal guest.
A lion's hide his back and limbs enfold,
Precious with studded work and paws of gold;
Fame through the little city spreads aloud
The intended march amid the fearful crowd;
The matrons beat their breasts, dissolve in tears,
And double their devotion in their fears.
The war at hand appears with more afright,

And rises every moment to the sight.

Then old Evander, with a close embrace,

Strained his departing friend, and tears o'erflow his face. "Would heaven," said he, "my strength and youth recall, Such as I was beneath Preneste's wall;

Then when I made the foremost foes retire,

And set whole heaps of conquered shields on fire.

When Herilus in single fight I slew,

Whom with three lives Feronia did endue,
And thrice I sent him to the Stygian shore,
Till the last ebbing soul returned no more;
Such if I stood renewed, not these alarms,

Nor death, should rend me from my Pallas' arms.
Nor proud Mezentius, thus unpunished boast,
His rapes and murders on the Tuscan coast.
Ye gods, and mighty Jove, in pity bring
Relief, and hear a father and a king.
If Fate and you reserve these eyes to see
My son return with peace and victory---
If the loved boy shall bless his father's sight-
If we shall meet again with more delight,
Then draw my life in length, let me sustain
In hopes of his embrace, the worst of pain.
But if your hard decrees, which, oh, I dread,
Have doomed to death his undeserving head,

This, oh, this very moment, let me die,
While hopes and fears in equal balance lie.
While yet possessed of all his youthful charms,
I strain him close within these aged arms;
Before that fatal news my soul shall wound."
He said, and, swooning, sunk upon the ground;
His servants bore him off, and softly laid
His languished limbs upon is homely bed.
The horsemen march, the gates are opened wide;
Æneas at their head, Achates by his side.
Next these the Trojan leaders rode along ;
Last, follows in the rear, the Arcadian throng.
Young Pallas shone conspicuous o'er the rest,
Gilded his arms, embroidered was his vest.
So from the seas exerts his radiant head
The star, by whom the lights of heaven are led,
Shakes from his rosy locks the pearly dews,
Dispels the darkness and the day renews.
The trembling wives the walls and turrets crowd,
And follow with their eyes the dusty cloud,
Which winds disperse by fits, and show from far
The blaze of arms and shields and shining war.
The troops, drawn up in beautiful array,
O'er healthy plains pursue the ready way;
Repeated peals of shouts are heard around,
The neighing coursers answer to the sound,
And shake with horny hoofs the solid ground.

A greenwood shade, for long religion known,
Stands by the streams that wash the Tuscan town.
Encompassed round with gloomy hills above,
Which add a holy horror to the grove.
The first inhabitants, of Grecian blood,
That sacred forest to Sylvanus vowed,

The guardian of their flocks and fields, and pay
Their due devotions on his annual day.
Not far from hence, along the river's side,
In tents secure the Tuscan troops abide,

By Tarchon led. Now, from a rising ground
Æneas casts his wondering eyes around,

And all the Tyrrhene army had in sight,

Stretched on the spacious plain from left to right.
Thither his warlike train the Trojan led,

Refreshed his men, and wearied horses fed.

Meantime the mother-goddess, crowned with charms, Breaks through the clouds and brings the fated arms. Within a winding vale she finds her son

On the cool river's banks, retired alone.
She shows her heavenly form without disguise,
And gives herself to his desiring eyes.

66

Behold," she said, "performed in every part
My promise made, and Vulcan's laboured art.
Now seek secure the Latian enemy,

And haughty Turnus to the field defy."
She said. And having first her son embraced,
The radiant arms beneath an oak she placed.
Proud of the gift, he rolled his greedy sight
Around the work, and gazed with vast delight.
He lifts, he turns, he poises, and admires
The crested helm, that vomits radiant fires.
His hands the fatal sword and corselet hold,
One keen with tempered steel, one stiff with gold;
Both ample, flaming both, and beamy bright,
So shines a cloud when edged with adverse light.
He shakes the pointed spear, and longs to try
The plaited cuishes on his manly thigh.

But most admires the shield's mysterious mould,

And Roman triumphs rising on the gold.

For those, embossed, the heavenly smith had wrought (Not in the rolls of future fate untaught),

The wars in order, and the race divine

Of warriors, issuing from the Julian line.

The cave of Mars was dressed with mossy greens;
There, by the wolf, were laid the martial twins,
Intrepid on her swelling dugs they hung;

The foster-dam lolled out her fawning tongue;

They sucked secure, while bending back her head,

She licked their tender limbs, and formed them as they fed.

Not far from thence new Rome appears, with games
Projected for the rape of Sabine dames.

The pit resounds with shrieks: a war succeeds,
For breach of public faith, and unexampled deeds.
Here for revenge the Sabine troops contend;
The Romans there with arms the prey defend.
Wearied with tedious war, at length they cease;
And both the kings and kingdoms plight the peace.
The friendly chiefs before Jove's altar stand,
Both armed, with each a charger in his hand :
A fatted sow for sacrifice is led;

With imprecations on the perjured head.

Near this, the traitor Metius, stretched between
Four fiery steeds, is dragged along the green;