Her funeral mound
Was raised, and solemn rites performed; Aeneas,
When the deep water quieted, set sail.
The wind held fair to the night, and the white moon
Revealed the way over the tremulous water.
They skimmed the shores of Circe’s island; there
The sun’s rich daughter made the secret groves
Ring with continual singing, and the halls
Were bright with cedar burning through the night,
And the strident shuttle ran across the weaving.
Off shore, they heard the angry growl of lions
Trying to shake their shackles off, and roaring
In the late darkness, bristling boars, and bears
Coughing in cages, and the great wolves howling.
All these were men, whom cruel Circe’s magic
Changed into animals. But Neptune kept
The Trojans safely seaward, filled the sails,
Carried them safely past these anxious harbors.

And now the sea is crimson under the dawn,
Aurora glowing in her ruddy car,
And the winds go down, and the air is very still,
The slow oars struggle in the marble sea,
As from the ship Aeneas sees a grove
And through its midst a pleasant river running,
The Tiber, yellow sand and whirling eddy,
Down to the sea. Around, above and over,
Fly the bright-colored birds, the water-haunters,
Charming the air with song. The order given,
The Trojans turn their course to land; they enter
The channel and the shade.

Help me, Erato,
To tell the story: who were kings in Latium,
What was the state of things, when that strange army
First made for shore? Dear goddess, help the poet!
There is much to tell of, the initial trouble,
The grim development of war, the battles,
The princes in their bravery driven to death,
Etruscan cohorts, all the land in the west
Marshalled in armor. This is a greater mission,
A greater work, that moves me.

King Latinus
Was an old man, long ruler over a country
Blessed with the calm of peace. He was, they tell us,
The son of Faunus; Marica was his mother,
A nymph, Laurentian-born. And Faunus’ father
Was Picus, son of Saturn, the line’s founder.
Latinus had no sons; they had been taken,
By fate, in their young manhood; an only daughter
Survived to keep the house alive, a girl
Ripe for a husband. She had many suitors
From Latium, from Ausonia. Most handsome,
Most blessed in ancestry, was the prince Turnus,
Whom the queen mother favored, but the portents
Of the high gods opposed. There was a laurel
In the palace courtyard, tended through the years
With sacred reverence, which king Latinus,
When first he built the city, had discovered,
And hallowed to Apollo, and the people
Were called Laurentians, from its name. A marvel,
So runs the story, occurred here once, a swarm
Of bees, that came, loud-humming through clear air
To settle in the branches, a dense jumble
All through the leafy boughs. “We see a stranger,”
The prophet cried, “and a strange column coming
On the same course to the same destination,
We see him lord it over the height of the city.”
Another time Lavinia was standing
Beside her father at the altar, bringing
The holy torch to light the fire, when—horror!—
Her hair broke out in flame, sparks leaped and crackled
From diadem and coronal; her progress
Was a shower of fire, as she moved through the palace
Robed with gray smoke and yellow light, a vision
Fearful and wonderful. She would be glorious,
They said, in fame and fortune, but the people
Were doomed, on her account, to war.

Latinus
Was troubled by such prophecies, and turned
To Faunus, his prophetic father, seeking
His oracles for help, in Albunean
Woodland and forest, where the holy fountain
Makes music, breathing vapor from the darkness.
Italian men, Oenotrian tribes, in trouble
Come here for answers; here the priesthood, bringing
The offerings for sacrifice, by night-time
Slumbers on fleece of victims, seeing visions,
Hearing strange voices, meeting gods in converse,
Deep down in Acheron. Hither Latinus
Came, pilgrim and petitioner; the fleeces
Were spread for him, a hundred woolly victims,
And as he lay, half waking and half sleeping,
From the deep grove he heard a voice:—“My son,
Seek not a Latin husband for the princess;
Distrust this bridal; stranger sons are coming
To wed our children, to exalt our title
High as the stars, and from that marriage offspring
Will see, as surely as sun looks down on ocean,
The whole world at their feet.” These answers Faunus
Gave to his son, warnings in night and silence;
Latinus may have said no word, but Rumor
Had spread the news, all up and down the cities
Throughout Ausonia, by the time the Trojans
Tied up their vessels at the grassy landing.

Aeneas and the captains and Iulus
Sprawled in the shade; a feast was spread; they placed
The wheels of hardtack on the ground, and on them
Morsels of food, and sliced or quartered apples,
And after these were eaten, hunger drove them
To break the disks beneath with teeth and fingers.
“Ho!” cries Iulus, “We are eating our tables!”
A boy’s joke, nothing more. But the spoken word
Meant something more, and deeper, to Aeneas,
An end of hardship. He caught up the saying,
Felt the god’s presence. “Hail!” he cried, remembering,
“Hail, O my destined land! All hail, ye faithful
Gods of our homeland! Here our country lies.
Now I remember what Anchises told me:
My son, when hunger overtakes you, driven
To unknown shores, and the food seems so little
You find it best to gnaw the tables also,
There hope for home, there build, however weary,
The city walls, the moat, the ditch, the rampart.
This must have been that hunger, and the ending
Of our misfortunes. Come then, let us gladly
Explore what lands these are, what people hold them.
Now pour your cups to Jove, in the light of morning,
Pray to Anchises; let the wine again
Go round in happiness.” He wreathed his temples
With forest greenery, and made his prayers,
To the genius of the place, to the nymphs, to Earth,
Oldest of goddesses, to the unknown rivers,
To Night, and all her rising stars, to Jove,
To Cybele, to his parents, in heaven or Hades.
And the almighty father thrice made thunder
From the clear sky, and a bright cloud blazed above them
With rays of burning light, and a sudden rumor
Runs through the Trojan ranks that the day has come
To build the city due them. Cheered by the omen,
They hurry on the feast, set out the wine-bowls,
Crown them with garlands.

And on the next bright morning
As light streamed over the earth, they took the bearings
For city and land and coast-line; here they found
Numicius’ fountain, here the river Tiber,
Here the brave Latins dwell. A hundred envoys,
Picked men of every station, Aeneas orders
To go to King Latinus’ noble city:
They must bear gifts, be crowned with leaves of olive,
Appeal for peace. They hurry at his bidding.
Aeneas himself marks where the walls shall rise,
With a shallow trench, studies the site, and circles
The settlement, like a camp, with moat and rampart.
And his ambassadors had made their journey;
They were seeing, now, the Latin towers and roof-tops,
And, on suburban plains, young men in training,
Breaking their steeds to saddle or car, or drawing
The bow, or hurling darts, daring each other
To fights and races. A courier, at the gallop,
Brought the king word that foreigners were coming,
Big men, in strange attire. He bade them welcome,
And took his place, high on the throne, before them.

That was a mighty palace, rising high
Over the city, with a hundred columns;
Picus had ruled from there, and the place was holy
With sacred forest and revered tradition.
Here kings received the sceptre, here uplifted
The bundled rods of power; here was their senate,
Their banquet-hall, their temple; here the elders
Made sacrifice, faced the long line of tables.
And here were statues of the ancient fathers,
Carved out of cedar, Italus, Sabinus,
The planter of the vine, whose image guarded
The curving sickle, and Saturn, and two-faced Janus,
All standing in the hallways; and other kings
From the very first beginning; and warriors wounded
Fighting for homeland. On the door were hanging
The consecrated arms; and there were chariots,
Trophies of battle, curving axes, helmets
And helmet-plumes, bars wrenched from gates, and javelins,
And shields, and beaks of captured ships. Quirinus,
The god (on earth the hero, Romulus),
Was seated, holding the sacred staff of office,
Wearing the augur’s robe; and near him Picus,
Tamer of horses, whom that lovesick woman,
Circe, his wife, had struck with her golden wand,
And changed by magic spells into a bird
Whose wings were of many colors.

In this temple,
Latinus, from his father’s throne, gave summons,
And the Trojans entered, and he made them greeting
In courteous oration: “Tell me, Trojans—
We know, you see, your city and race, your voyage
Across the oceans—tell me your petition.
What cause, what need, has brought you here? You have come
Over the blue-green waters to Ausonia.
Were you off your course, or driven by storm? Mischances
On the high seas are not unknown to sailors.
No matter: you have entered peaceful rivers,
You rest in a good harbor. We bid you welcome.
Do not avoid our friendship. We must tell you
We Latins come from Saturn; we are people
Whose sense of justice comes from our own nature
And the custom of our god. No law, no bondage,
Compels our decency. And I remember,
Though it was long ago, some story told us
By older men; it seems that Dardanus,
An ancestor of yours, was born here, left here
For towns in Phrygian Ida, and Thracian Samos,
Or Samothrace, they call it now. He left here,
When he departed, from his Tuscan dwelling
Called Corythus, and now the golden palace
Of starry sky receives him, throned in heaven,
A god, who multiplies their count of altars.”

Ilioneus answered:—“Son of Faunus,
Great king, no tempest and no blackness drove us
Over the waves to shelter here; no star,
No shore, has fooled us in our voyage.
We came on purpose, and with willing hearts,
To this your city, exiled from a kingdom,
The greatest, once, that ever the sun looked down on.
We come from Jove; in Jove as ancestor
The sons of Troy rejoice; our king, Aeneas,
Himself is sprung from Jove; it is he who sent us
To seek your threshold. No one in all the world,
Whether he lives on the farthest edge of ocean,
Whether he lives in the deepest heart of the tropics,
No one, I think, but knows how fierce a storm-cloud
Broke from Mycenae over the plains of Ida,
And how two worlds, Europe and Asia, battled
Driven by fate to war. We have been driven
By that great tidal wave across vast oceans,
And now we ask a little home, a harbor—
We will do no damage—for our country’s gods,
We ask for nothing more than all should have,
For air and water. You need not be sorry,
We shall do nothing shameful in your kingdom,
Your fame, your kindness, as we tell the story,
Will grow in greatness. Ausonia, I promise,
Will not regret receiving Troy. I swear it
On our captain’s fate and honor, proven often
In loyalty, in war. There are many nations,
Nations and people both, who have often sought us,
Wanted us for their allies—do not scorn us
For coming as petitioners, with garlands,
With suppliant words—it was the will of heaven
That drove us to your shores. Dardanus came
From here, and over and over again Apollo guides us
To Tiber and Numicia’s sacred fountain.
Our king is sending presents, little tokens
Of former fortune, relics and remainders
Rescued from Troy on fire. This gold Anchises
Used when he poured libations at the altar,
This sceptre and this diadem were Priam’s,
Who wore these robes, the work of Trojan women,
When he gave laws to the assembled people.”

Latinus, at his words, was grave; he held
His gaze downcast, but his anxious eyes kept turning.
It was not the crimson color, nor Priam’s sceptre,
That moved him so; he was thinking of his daughter,
Her marriage, and the oracle of Faunus.
This one might be the man, this stranger, coming
From a far-off land, might be his son, a ruler
Called, by the fates, to share his power, to father
Illustrious children, masters of the world.
He spoke, in gladness:—“Bless, O gods, our project
And your own augury! It will be given,
O Trojan, as you ask. I do not scorn
The gifts you bring. Never, while I am ruling,
Shall you be lacking fruitful land in plenty,
And Troy’s abundance shall be yours forever.
And as for king Aeneas, if you bring us
True tidings of his longing for our friendship,
Our hospitality, and our alliance,
Let him appear in person, let him never
Shrink from our friendly gaze. To King Latinus
It will be pact and covenant to meet him,
To take him by the hand. Give him my answer:
I have a daughter; prodigies from heaven
Innumerable, and my father’s warnings,
Delivered through his oracle, forbid me
To give my daughter to a native husband.
They tell me that my son-to-be is coming
From foreign shores, to raise our name to heaven.
Such is the prophecy they make for Latium.
Your king, I think, must be the man they promise,
If I have any sense of divination.
He is the one I choose.”

And he brought horses,
The pick of his stables, out of all his hundreds,
Assigned them to the Trojans in due order,
Swift runners they were, caparisoned with crimson,
With saddle-cloths of gold, and golden halters
Swung at their shoulders, and the bits were golden.
He chose a chariot for Aeneas; with it
Two stallions breathing fire, immortal horses
Sprung from the stock which Circe, in her cunning,
Had stolen from the sun, her father, and bred them
To her own mares. The Trojans rode back happy
With gifts and peace and welcome from Latinus.

And here was Juno coming back from Argos,
Riding the air, and fierce as ever, seeing,
As far away as Sicily and Pachynus,
Aeneas and the Trojan fleet rejoicing.
She saw them building homes, she saw them trusting
The friendly land, she saw their ships forsaken.
She stopped, she tossed her head, in hurt and hatred,
Speaking, with none to listen:—“There they are,
The race I hate, the fates that fight my own.
They could not die on Sigean fields; they could not
Be captured, and stay captured. Troy went down,
It seems, in fire, and they rose from the ashes.
Armies and flame were nothing; they found the way.
Whereas my power, no doubt, lies weak and weary,
I have hated them enough, I am tired of hating,
I have earned my rest. Or have I? I dared to follow
Those exiles over the water with deadly hatred,
Used up all threats of sea and sky against them,
And what good did it do? Scylla, Charybdis,
The Syrtes, all availed me nothing. Tiber
Shelters them in his channel now, in safety.
What do they care for me, or the threats of ocean?
Mars could destroy the giant race of Lapiths,
Jupiter put a curse on Calydon
To soothe Diana’s anger; what had either,
Calydon or the Lapiths, done to merit
The vengeance of the gods? But I, great queen
Of heaven, wife of Jove, I keep enduring,
Dare everything, turn everywhere, for nothing—
I am beaten by Aeneas! So, if my power
Falls short of greatness, I must try another’s,
Seek aid where I can find it. If I cannot
Bend Heaven, I can raise Hell. It will not be given,—
I know, I know—to keep him from his kingdom,
To keep him from his bride: Lavinia, Latium,
Will come to him in time. It is permitted
To keep that time far off. It is permitted
To strike their people down. It will cost them something,
Their precious father and son. As for the bride,
Bloodshed will be her dowry, and Bellona
Matron of honor. Hecuba bore one firebrand,
And Venus’ issue shall be such another,
A funeral torch for Troy re-born.”

She came
Earthward, with that, and summoned, in her anger,
One of the evil goddesses, Allecto,
Dweller in Hell’s dark shadows, sorrow-bringer,
Lover of gloom and war and plot and hatred.
Even her father hates her, even her sisters,
She takes so many forms, such savage guises,
Her hair a black and tangled nest of serpents.
And Juno whets the knife-edge of her passion:—
“Daughter of Night, grant me a boon, a service,
To keep my pride and honor undefeated.
Stop it, this Trojan swindle of Latinus
With marriages, this ravage of his kingdom!
You have the power: when brothers love each other
You know the way to arm them, set them fighting,
You can turn houses upside down with malice,
Bring under one roof the lash, the funeral torches,
You have a thousand names of evil-doing,
A thousand ways and means. Invent, imagine,
Contrive—break up the peace, sow seeds of warfare,
Let arms be what they want; in the same moment
Let arms be what they seize.”

Therewith Allecto,
Infected with her Gorgon poison, travelled
To Latium and the palace, where the queen,
Amata, brooded, womanly resentment
Burning within her heart, for Turnus’ marriage,
And, fuel on fire, the coming of the Trojans.
From her own dark hair, Allecto pulled one serpent
Meant for the queen, her intimate heart, her bosom,
Corruption, evil, frenzy, for the household.
Between the robe and the smooth breasts the serpent
Went gliding deep, unseen, unfelt; the woman
Received the viperous menace. The snake grew larger,
Became a collar of gold, became a ribbon
Wound through the hair, entwining, sliding smoothly
Over the limbs, mercurial poison, working
With slow infection, no great passionate fury,
So that the queen, at first, spoke low and softly,
As mothers do, protesting to Latinus
And weeping for her daughter’s Trojan marriage:—
“Must she be given, my lord, to Trojan exiles?
Have you no pity for her, for yourself,
No pity for a mother? He will desert us,
This faithless pirate, with our child as booty,
At the first turn of the wind. That was the way—
Remember?—the Phrygian shepherd came to Sparta
And went away with Leda’s daughter, Helen.
A solemn pledge—does that amount to nothing?
You loved your people once; you were bound to Turnus.
Our son must be a stranger; Faunus says so.
If Faunus speaks, so be it. I remind you
All lands, not ours, are foreign; and prince Turnus,
By the letter of the oracle, an alien.
Trace back his ancestry—Acrisius’ daughter
Founded his line, and what could be more foreign
Than the heart of Greece, Mycenae?”

But she found
Her words were vain: Latinus had decided,
She saw she could not move him. And the poison
By now had taken hold, a wild excitement
Coursing the veins; her bones were turned to water;
Poor queen, there was no limit to her raging,
Streeling, one end of the city to another.
You know how schoolboys, when a top is spinning,
Snap at it with a whiplash, in a circle
Around an empty court, and keep it going,
Wondering at the way it keeps on whirling,
Driven by blows in this or that direction,
So, through the midst of cities and proud people,
Amata drives, is driven. Madness and guilt upon her,
She flies to the mountains, tries to hide her daughter
Deep in the woods, acts like a drunken woman,
Cries, over and over, “This girl is meant for Bacchus,
And not for any Trojans, only Bacchus
Is worthy of her; she honors him in dancing,
Carries his wand, and keeps for him the sacred
Lock of her hair!” And Rumor, flying over,
Excites the other wives to leave their houses.
They come with maddened hearts, with their hair flying,
Their necks bare to the winds; they shriek to the skies,
Brandish the vine-bound spears, are dressed as tigers,
Circle and wheel around their queen, whose frenzy
Tosses the burning pine-brand high, in gesture
To suit the marriage-hymn: “O Latin mothers,
Listen, wherever you are: if any care
For poor Amata moves you, or any sense
Of any mother’s rights, come join the revels,
Loosen the hair, exult!” Allecto drives her
To the dens of the beasts; her eyes are stained and bloodshot,
Rolled upward to the white.

So, thought Allecto,
That should suffice: the palace of Latinus,
And all the king intended, in confusion.
She flew on dusky wings, a gloomy goddess,
To the bold Rutulian’s walls, that city, founded,
Men say, by Danaë and Acrisian settlers,
A place once called Ardea, and it keeps
Its ancient name; its glory has departed.
And here, in his high palace, Turnus slumbered.
In the dead of night, Allecto changed her features,
Her limbs, transformed her glowering, her grimness,
To an old woman’s wrinkles, bound a ribbon
Around gray hair, worked in a wreath of olive,
And she was Calybe then, an aged priestess
Of Juno’s temple, and so she came to Turnus:—
“Turnus! Can this be borne, so many labors
Wasted, the kingdom given to the Trojans?
The king denies you all, the bride, the dowry
Bought with your blood; his heir must be a stranger.
They mock you; never mind. Go forth, protect them,
Save them from dangers, see what thanks they give you,
Lay low the Tuscan ranks, hold over the Latins
The shield of peace. I tell you, Juno told me,
And you so calmly slumbering all through it,
Rise up, be doing something, and be happy
To see the young men armed, and get them going
Out of the gates! There are ships to burn, and captains
To set on fire: the mighty gods command it.
Let King Latinus know it, let him reckon
With Turnus in arms, unless he keeps his promise.”
But Turnus, smiling at her, answered:—“Mother,
You tell me nothing new; I know a fleet
Has come to Tiber’s waters; do not scare me
With fears imagined; Juno, I am certain,
Has not forgotten me. Your age, old woman,
Worn-down, truth-weary, harries you with worries,
Makes you ridiculous, a busybody,
Nervous for nothing in the wars of kings.
Back to the temple, mind your proper business,
Leave war and peace where they belong, with warriors.”
Allecto blazed with anger: Turnus, speaking,
Was suddenly afraid, so wild her features,
So fierce her flaming eyes, the snakes of the Fury
Hissing disaster. She shoves him back; he falters,
Tries to say more; she plies her whip, she doubles
The rising serpents, and her wild mouth cries,
“See me for what I am, worn down, truth-weary,
Nervous for nothing in the wars of kings!
See what I am, see where I come from, bringing
War, war and death, from the Grim Sisters’ home.”
She flung the firebrand at him, torch and terror
Smoking with lurid light. The body, sweating,
Is torn from sleep; he cries for arms, he seeks
Arms at his bedside, through the hallways, lusting
For sword and steel, war’s wicked frenzy mounting
To rampant rage. Even so a cauldron bubbles
When fire burns hot beneath, and water seethes,
Stirs, shifts, breaks out in boiling, and the cloud
Of steam goes toward the sky. The peace is broken.
The call to arms is given; let the captains
March on Latinus, drive the foe from Latium,
Protect the fatherland. Turnus is coming;
No matter who they are, Trojans or Latins,
Turnus will take them on. And his example,
His frenzied prayer, shook his Rutulian comrades,
All eagerness for war. They all admired him,
For handsome bearing, youth, or deeds of courage,
Or kingly birth: boldness engenders boldness.

Allecto, meanwhile, took a new direction,
To the Trojans now; she had found a place for mischief
Along the shore, she had seen Iulus hunting;
His hounds were driven to madness; the scent was rank,
Hot in their nostrils; away they went, the pack
In full cry after the deer, and that pursuit
Was the first cause of trouble; that first kindled
The countryside to violence. That deer,
A handsome animal, with mighty antlers,
Belonged, a pet, to Tyrrhus and his children,
Who had raised him from a fawn. Tyrrhus, the father,
Was keeper of the royal herds, and Silvia,
The daughter, used to comb the beast, and wash him,
Twine garlands in his horns, caress and love him,
And he, grown used to her, would wander freely
Over the woods and meadows, and come home
At nightfall to the friendly door and stable.
This was the deer Iulus’ hounds had started
Floating downstream, reclining by the river
For coolness’ sake, where young Ascanius, burning
For a huntsman’s praise, saw him, and loosed the arrow
That pierced the belly and side, so the poor creature
Came wounded to the house he knew, and moaning
Crept into his stall, bleeding, and like a person
Asking for help, filled all the house with sorrow.
First Silvia came, beating her arms, and others,
Summoned for help, equipped themselves for vengeance,
With Allecto lurking in the silent forest.
A knotted club, a sharpened stake, a firebrand,
Whatever comes to hand will serve, when anger
Is looking for a weapon. Tyrrhus calls them,
They are warriors now, not farmers; they leave the logging,
The quartered oak, the wedges; in breathless anger
Tyrrhus grabs up the axe. A perfect moment
For the goddess on her watch-tower!—she comes flying
To the stable roof; she sounds the shepherds’ call,
Straining her hellish voice on the curved horn
Till grove and woodland echo. Diana’s lake
Hears, and Velinus’ fountain, and white Nar,
The spring of sulphur; and mothers, in their panic,
Hold their young children close. But swift to the sound,
The dire alarum, came the farmers, running;
They call no man their master; they snatch up weapons.
And on the other side the youth of the Trojans
Pour through the open gates to help Iulus.
They are drawn up now; no more a rustic quarrel
With stakes and clubs, the double-bladed steel
Decides the issue, swords are drawn, the harvest
Is black and spiky; bronze defies the sunlight,
Tossing its luster cloudward. As waves at sea
At first are little whitecaps under the wind,
And slowly turn to billows, and then great combers,
So rose the swell of war. Young Almo fell,
Eldest of Tyrrhus’ sons; a whirring arrow,
Piercing the throat, choked him in his own blood.
And many around him fell, among them one,
A good old man, Galaesus, who had come forward
To plead for peace, and died; he was most just
Of all Ausonia’s men, and wealthy, counting
Five flocks of sheep and cattle; a hundred ploughs
Furrowed his acres.

So they fought together,
And neither won,—Allecto had kept her promise:
She had soaked the war in blood, she had made beginning
Of death in battle. She left the western land,
She soared to Juno in heaven, proud of her triumph:—
“There it is for you, perfect, war created
From disagreement! Tell them to join in friendship,
Let them make treaties, now my hand has spattered
The Trojans with Ausonian blood! And still
I can do more, if you desire it: cities
Near-by, I can plague to war with rumors, burn them
With wild desire for battle, bring in allies
From everywhere; I will sow the land with armies.”
But Juno answered:—“That is plenty, thank you;
They can not stop it now; man battles man;
Fresh blood is on the arms that chance first gave.
Now let them stage that bridal feast, that wedding,
Venus’ distinguished son, and king Latinus!
Olympus’ ruler would be most unwilling
To let you roam thus freely in the heavens;
Be gone from here; whatever more is needed,
I will attend to.” So spoke Saturn’s daughter,
And the serpents hissed as the Fury raised her wings,
Flew up, swooped down, to Hell. Under high hills
In Italy’s heart, there lies a vale, Ampsanctus,
Well known in many lands. Dark forests hide it
On every side, and in its very centre
A roaring torrent over the rocks goes brawling,
And there is a cavern here, a breathing hole
For terrible Dis, and a gorge, where Acheron river
Opens the deadly jaws; and here Allecto
Sank out of sight, relieving earth and heaven.

And Juno gave the war the final touches.
The shepherds came to the city from the battle,
Bearing young Almo, slain, and old Galaesus,
His peaceful face defiled; they cry to the gods,
They call on King Latinus. Turnus is there,
As they cry murder, fuel to their fire,
Making their terror double: the kingdom falls
To the men of Troy, he shouts; our blood is tainted;
I am degraded here! And the Latin mothers,
Trooping the pathless woods in Bacchic orgies,
Amata’s cause being their cause, assemble
From every side; it is Mars for whom they clamor,
Not Bacchus any more. And all the people,
Against the omens, against the will of the gods,
Cry out for wicked war. They fight each other,
Almost, to siege and storm Latinus’ palace.
He is a rock in the sea; he stands like a sea-rock
When a crash of water comes, and it is steadfast
Against the howl of the waves, and the roar is useless,
And the sea-weed, flung at the side, goes dripping back.
But even so Latinus could not conquer
Their blind determination. Things were going
As Juno willed. He invoked the empty air,
He invoked the gods, in vain. “Alas, we are broken!
We are broken by fate, we are swept away by storm.
You will pay for this, you will pay for it with bloodshed,
O my poor people! And punishment is waiting,
Turnus, for you; you will find it very bitter,
And then you will pray, and it will be too late.
My rest is won, my voyage almost over;
I lose a happy death.” He said no more,
Shut himself in his palace, and relinquished
The reins of power.

There was a Latin custom,
Cherished, thereafter, by the Alban cities,
As now by Rome, great empress—when they rouse
The god of war to battle, against the Getans,
Arabians, Hyrcanians, no matter;
Whether they march on India, or strive
To win back captured standards from the Parthians,
The custom holds. There are twin gates of Mars,
Held in both awe and reverence; they are fastened
By bolts of bronze, a hundred, by the eternal
Solidity of iron, and their guardian
Is Janus, always watchful at the threshold.
These, when the fathers vote for war, the consul,
Girt in the dress of Romulus, and belted
Gabinian-wise, with his own hand must open,
Must swing the portals wide, with his own voice
Cry war, and the others follow, and the trumpets
Give tongue in bronze agreement. So Latinus
Was called on, by that custom, for announcement
Of war against the Trojans, for the opening
Of those grim gates. But he refused to touch them,
Fled from the task he loathed, hid in the darkness,
And Juno, coming from heaven, shoved them open
With her own hand; the turning hinges grated,
The iron was loosed for war. And all Ausonia,
Listless till then, unmoved, blazed out in fury:
On foot they came, on horseback; through the dust
The cry rang out To arms! They oil the shields,
They make the javelins shine, they hone the axes,
They love the sight of banner, the sound of trumpet.
In five great cities, Tibur, Crustumerium,
Antemnae, and Atina, and Ardea,
Strong towns, and proud, and turret-crowned, they forge
New weapons on their anvils; they carve out helmets,
Make wicker covers for the shields; they hammer
Breastplates of bronze, or greaves of pliant silver.
They beat their ploughshares into swords; the furnace
Gives a new temper to the blades of their fathers.
Alarum sounds, password is whispered. Helmets
Come down from the wall; the yoke weighs down the horses;
A man puts on his armor, picks up his shield,
Buckles his sword to his side.

Open the mountain,
Muses, release the song!—what kings were hurried
Hot-haste to war, who filled their battle-lines,
How Italy blossomed with men, and burned with weapons,
For you remember, Muses, and you have power
To make us all remember, deeds that rumor,
Far-off and faint, brings to our recollection.

First from the Tuscan shore came fierce Mezentius,
Arming his columns, the man who scorned the gods.
Beside him, handsomer than any other,
Save only Turnus, stood his son, young Lausus,
Tamer of horses, huntsman, from Agylla,
Leading a thousand warriors, a vain mission;
He was worthy, Lausus, of a happier fortune
Than being his father’s subject; he was worthy
Of a better father.

Near them, Aventinus
Paraded over the field his horses, victors
In many a fight, his chariots, crowned with palm-leaves.
His shield portrayed a hundred snakes, and the Hydra,
Serpent-surrounded, a token of his father,
For this was Hercules’ son, whose manly beauty
Was like his father’s. His mother was a priestess,
Rhea, whom Hercules had known when, victor,
He had slain Geryon, reached Laurentian country,
And bathed Iberian cattle in the Tiber.
His birthplace was the forest on the hillside
That men call Aventine; his birth was secret.
His men go into battle with pikes and javelins,
Fight with the tapering sabre, and a curious
Sabellan type of dart. And Aventinus
Strode out on foot, the skin of a lion swinging
Across his shoulders; the bristling mane was shaggy,
And the head rose above it like a helmet,
With the white teeth bared and snarling. So he entered
The royal halls, and everything about him
Gave sign of Hercules.

Next came two brothers,
Twins from the town of Tibur, named Catillus
And Coras; through the throng of spears they entered
As Centaurs, born from clouds, come down the mountains,
Crashing through wood and thicket in their onrush.

There was Caeculus, the founder of Praeneste,
A king who, legend says, was born to Vulcan
In a country that raised cattle, found, untended,
Beside a campfire. His men were country fellows
From every here and there, from steep Praeneste,
From Juno’s Gabian fields, from the cold river,
The Anio, Anagnia, Amasenus,
Hernician rocks, and dewy stream and meadow.
Some of them had no arms, no shields, no chariots,
Their weapons, for the most part, being slingshots
And bullets of dull lead, but some of them carried
A couple of darts apiece, and for their headgear
Wore tawny wolfskins; they kept the left foot bare,
They wore a rawhide shinguard on the other.

And there was Messapus, a son of Neptune,
A tamer of horses, a man whom none in battle
Could hurt with fire or sword; his people came
To war from years and years of peaceful living,
Men from Fescennium, Soracte’s mountains,
Flavinian fields, Ciminus’ lake and hillside,
Capena’s groves. They sang as they were marching,
Hailing their king in measured step and rhythm,
Their music like the sound of swans, bound home,
White through white cloud, as they return from feeding,
And the long throats pour echoing music over
Meadow and river. You would not think of warriors,
Marshalled in bronze, in that array, but a cloud
Of raucous birds, driven from sea to shore.

Clausus, a host in himself, led a great host
Of Sabine blood; the Claudian tribe at Rome
Of Sabine origin owes to him its name.
His followers came from many cities, Cures,
Eretum, Amiternum, and Mutusca,
Renowned for olives, Tetrica, Nomentum,
Velinus’ countryside and Mount Severus,
Casperia and Foruli; many rivers
Had served their thirst, the Fabaris, the Tiber,
Himella’s stream, chill Nursia, and Allia,
A name of evil omen: they came like waves
Rolling to Africa’s coast when fierce Orion
Sinks in the wintry ocean, as thick as grain
Turned brown in early summer on Hermus’ plain
Or Lydia’s yellow acres. The earth trembles
Under their feet; the shields clang on their shoulders.

And there was Agamemnon’s son, Halaesus,
A hater of the Trojan name; for Turnus
He yoked his steeds, he brought a thousand peoples,
Men who hoe Massic vineyards, men from hills,
Men from the plains; men from Volturnus’ river,
Men from the town of Cales; Oscan people,
Saticulan hosts. Their weapon is the javelin,
Wound with the whiplash; an old-fashioned shield
Covers their left; for work, close-in, they carry
Sharp-bladed scimitars.

And Oebalus
Was with him, son of Telon and Sebethis,
Born by that nymph when Telon, old, was ruling
Over Capri, a realm his son extended
Over Sarrastrian tribes, over the plainland,
The Sarnus waters; Batulum, Celemna,
Rufrae, were all his towns, and high Abella,
Rich in its apple-trees. These warriors carried
Some kind of German dart; they used for headgear
Bark of the cork-tree: shields and swords were bronze.

From Nersae Ufens came, a man distinguished
In arms and reputation; his tribe were huntsmen,
Farmers, after a fashion; they wore their armor
Even when ploughing. Rugged soil they lived on;
They loved to raid and live on what they raided.

Archippus, the Marruvians’ king, had sent
A warrior-priest, Umbro, renowned in courage.
His helmet carried olive leaves; he knew
The arts of charming serpents and of healing
Their venomous wounds; he had no magic, later,
Against the Trojan spear-point, and the herbs,
Gathered on Marsian hills, availed him little
In days of war; his native groves and waters
Mourned his untimely death.

And Virbius came,
Aricia’s handsome son, raised in the groves,
The marshy shores around Diana’s altar,
Most rich, most gracious. Hippolytus, his father,
Had once been slain, the story runs, a victim
Of Phaedra’s hate and passion, and the vengeance
His father took; he had been drawn and quartered
By Theseus’ stallions, but Apollo’s magic,
Diana’s love, had given him life again
Under the stars and the fair light of heaven,
And Jupiter, angry that any mortal
Should rise from shadow to life, struck down his healer,
Apollo’s son, with a fearful blast of thunder,
Hippolytus being hidden by Diana
In a secret place, where the nymph Egeria tended
Her sacred grove; there he lived out, alone,
In the Italian woods, the days of his life
With no renown; he took another name,
Virbius, meaning, Twice a man; no horses
Ever came near that grove, that holy temple,
Seeing that horses on an earlier shore
Had overturned his chariot in panic
And been his death, driven to panic terror
By monsters from the ocean. But his son,
Virbius the younger, had no fear of horses,
Driving and riding to war.

Among the foremost,
Taller than any, by a head, was Turnus,
Gripping the sword; his helmet, triple-crested,
Had a Chimaera on it, breathing fire
From gaping jaws; the bloodier the battle,
The hotter the fight, the redder that reflection,
And on his shield, in gold, the story of Io,
The heifer, once a girl; you could see her guardian,
Argus, the hundred-eyed, and her poor father,
The river-god with streaming urn, Inachus.
And a cloud of warriors on foot behind him,
Columns with shields, the Argives and Auruncans,
Rutulians, old Sicanians, Labicians
With colored shields, Sacranians, men from Tiber,
Ploughmen of Circe’s ridge, soldiers from Anxur,
Sons of Feronia, that land of greenness
Where Satura’s marsh lies dark, and the cold river
Runs seaward through the valley.

And last of all
Camilla rode, leading her troops on horseback,
Her columns bright with bronze, a soldieress,
A woman whose hands were never trained to weaving,
To the use of wool, to basketry, a girl
As tough in war as any, in speed afoot
Swifter than wind. She could go flying over
The tips of the ears of the wheat, and never bruise them,
So light her way, she could run on the lift of the wave,
Dry-shod; and they came from the houses and fields to wonder,
To gaze at her going, young men, and matrons thronging,
Wide-eyed and with parted lips, at the glory of royal crimson
Over her shoulders’ smoothness, the clasp of the gold
In her hair, and the way she carried the Lycian quiver,
The heft of the pastoral myrtle, the wand with the spearpoint.