As Turnus raised war’s banner, and the trumpets
Blared loud above Laurentum’s citadel,
And fiery horses reared, and arms were clashing,
Confusion reigned: all Latium joined alliance,
The youth were mad for war. Messapus, Ufens,
And that despiser of the gods, Mezentius,
Brought forces in from everywhere; wide fields
Were stripped of countrymen. They sent a message
By Venulus, to Diomede in Arpi:
Come to our aid; the Trojans are in Latium;
Aeneas with a fleet and vanquished gods
Proclaims himself a king; it is fate, he says;
And many tribes are joining him; his name
Spreads far and wide in Latium. Diomede
(The message says) better than many others,
Should know the outcome, if the grace of fortune
Follows Aeneas in the scheme he nurtures.
He knows the Trojans; he can judge them better
Than Turnus or Latinus.
So, in Latium,
Events were shaping, and Aeneas knew it,
And saw it all, and turned and tossed in torment
On a great sea of trouble. The swift mind
Went searching, probing, veering with every shift,
As when in a bronze bowl the light of water,
Reflected by the sun or moonlight, wavers,
Dances and flits about, from wall to ceiling.
Night: over all the world the weary creatures,
The beasts and birds, were deep in sleep; Aeneas,
With warfare in his heart, stretched out for rest
Where the cold sky was awning over the river,
And sleep came late. Before him rose an image,
An aged head amid the poplar leaves,
A mantle of gray, and shady reeds around him,
Tiber, the river-god, in consolation
And comfort speaking:—“Son of the gods, redeemer
Of Troy from overseas, her savior ever,
O long-awaited on Laurentian fields,
Here is your home, be sure of it; here dwell
Your household gods, be sure. Do not turn back,
Do not be frightened by the threats of war:
The swollen rage of Heaven has subsided.
Soon—do not take my words for idle phantoms,
Illusions of a dream—under the holm-oaks
Along the shore, you will find a huge sow lying,
White, with a new-born litter at her udders,
Thirty of them, all white, a certain token
Of a new city, in thirty years. Your son
Will found it; he will call it the White City,
A glorious name, beyond all doubt whatever.
Further, I have a word or two of guidance
To speed you through the pressure of the moment
Toward ultimate victory. Inland a little
Arcadian people live, a race descended
From Pallas’ line; their king is called Evander,
Under whose banner they have built a city,
High on the hills; its name is Pallanteum.
They wage continual warfare with the Latins;
Take them as allies, in covenant and treaty.
And I myself will guide you there, upstream
Along the banks, the oars against the current.
Rise, goddess-born; when the stars set, make prayer
To Juno first, with suppliant vows appeasing
Her threats and anger. As for me, my tribute
May wait your triumph. I am blue-green Tiber,
The river most dear to Heaven, I am the river
You see, brim-full to these rich banks, this ploughland:
This is my home, the source of lofty cities.”

So spoke the river-god, to his deep pool diving.
Slumber and night were gone. Aeneas rose,
Faced eastern sunlight, took up river water
In the hollow of his hands, and made his prayer:—
“Laurentian Nymphs, to whom the rivers owe
Their essence, father Tiber, holy river,
Receive Aeneas, be his shield in danger.
Wherever your presence dwells, in pool or fountain,
Whatever land its flowing bounty graces,
O comforter in time of trouble, surely
Our gifts will bring their meed of honor, always,
To the horned ruler of the western waters.
Only be with us, give us confirmation!”
He had made his prayer; two ships were quickly chosen
Out of the fleet, equipped, and the crews made ready.

And then a marvel struck their eyes, a wonder!
White in the wood, on the green ground, there lay
A sow with her white litter, and Aeneas
Brought them in sacrifice to Juno’s altar.
All that long night, the Tiber calmed his flood;
The silent wave, retreating, lay as still
As pool or mere or watery plain; the oars
Dipped without strain; the voyage went with laughter
And cheerful shouting; over the waters rode
The oily keels; and waves and woods in wonder
Beheld the shields of men, the colored vessels,
Divide the flood. Day turns to night. They traverse
The winding bends, with green shade arching over,
Parting the green woods in the quiet water,
Till it is noon, and they see walls and houses,
Evander’s town, which Roman power later
Made equal to the city, a mighty empire,
But it was little then. They turned to the shore,
Drew near the city.

On that day, it happened,
The king was paying customary homage,
In a grove before the city, to the gods,
To Hercules, most of all. And his son Pallas
Was with him there, and the leaders of the people,
The lowly senate, bringing gifts of incense
Where the warm blood was smoking at the altars.
They saw the tall ships come, they saw them gliding
Upstream, through the dark wood, the feathered oar-blades
Making no noise at all, and they were frightened,
They rose; they would have left the feast, but Pallas,
Unterrified, forbade them; he seized a weapon,
Rushed out in challenge, calling from a hillock:—
“What cause, young men, has brought you here, exploring
Ways that you do not know? Where are you going?
What is your race? Where do you come from? Are you
Bringers of peace or war?” Aeneas answered
From the high stern, raising the branch of olive:—
“We are men from Troy; we are armed against the Latins,
Whose arrogant war we flee. We seek Evander.
Take him this message: tell him chosen leaders,
Dardanus’ sons, have come, to seek for friendship,
For allied arms.” And Pallas, in amazement
At hearing that great name, cried, “Come and join us,
Whoever you are, speak to my father, enter,
O guest, into our household!” And his hand
Reached out to greet and guide them. They left the river,
Drew near the grove; with friendly words Aeneas
Spoke to Evander:—“Best of the sons of Greeks,
To whom, at fortune’s will, I bring petition,
Bearing the branch of peace, I have not been frightened
To come to you, a Danaan chief, related
To Atreus’ twin sons. In my own right
I am worth something; we are bound together
By the god’s holy oracles, by the old
Ancestral kinship, by your own renown
Widespread through all the world. I am glad to follow
The will of fate. Dardanus, our great father,
Was father of Troy; his mother was Electra,
Daughter of Atlas, who carries on his shoulders
The weight of heaven. Mercury is your father,
Born, on Cyllene’s chilly peak, to Maia,
And Maia, if legend is credible, the daughter
Of Atlas, who carries heaven on his shoulders.
A common blood runs in our veins, and therefore
I sent no embassies, I planned no careful
Tentative overtures; myself, I came here
My life at your disposal, in supplication
Before your threshold. We are harried in war
By the same race that harries you, the sons
Of Daunus; nothing, so they think, will stop them,
If we are beaten, from complete dominion
Over the western land and both her oceans.
Receive and give alliance: our hearts are brave,
Our spirit tried and willing.”

He had finished.
Evander had been watching him, expression,
Gesture, and mood, and bearing. He made answer:—
“How gladly, bravest man of all the Trojans,
I recognize and welcome you! Your father,
The great Anchises, speaks to me again,—
These are the words, the voice, the very features
That I recall so well. Once Priam came here,
Faring to Salamis, his sister’s kingdom.
I was a young man then; I stared in wonder
At the chiefs of Troy, at Priam, but Anchises
Towered above them all, and my heart was burning
To clasp his hand, to speak with him: I met him,
I led him, proudly, to Pheneus’ city,
And when he left, he gave me a fine quiver
With Lycian arrows, a cloak with gold embroidered,
A pair of golden bridles; my son Pallas
Rejoices in them now. The bond you ask for
Is given, the treaty made. To-morrow morning
My escort will attend your leave, my riches
Be at your service. Meanwhile, since you come here
As friends of ours, join us in celebrating
These yearly rites of ours. It is not permitted
Our people to postpone them. In your kindness,
Become accustomed to your allies’ tables.”

He gave the orders for the feast’s renewal.
Once more the cups are set; the king, in person,
Conducts his guests to places on the greensward,
Reserving for Aeneas, in special honor,
A maple throne, draped with the skin of a lion.
Chosen attendants and the priest of the altar
Bring the roast portions, pile the bread in baskets,
Serve Bacchus’ wine. Aeneas and the Trojans
Feast on the consecrated food.

When hunger
Was satisfied, and the wine went round, Evander
Told them a story:—“No vain superstition,
No ignorance of the gods, enjoins upon us
These solemn rites, this feast, this deep devotion
To a mighty power’s altar. O Trojan guest,
We are grateful men, saved from a cruel danger,
We pay these rites each year, each year renewing
A worship justly due. Look up at the cliff
Hung on the high rocks yonder, see the scattered
Rubble of rock, the ruin of a dwelling,
The jumble of toppled crags. There was a cave there
Once on a time; no man had ever measured
Its awful depth, no sunlight ever cheered it.
The half-man, Cacus, terrible to look at,
Lived in that cave, and the ground was always reeking
With the smell of blood, and nailed to the doors, the faces
Of men hung pale and wasted. Vulcan fathered
This monster; you would know it if you saw him
With the black fire pouring from mouth and nostrils,
A bulk of moving evil. But time at last
Brought us the help we prayed for; a great avenger,
A god, came to our rescue, Hercules,
Proud in the death and spoil of triple Geryon,
Drove his huge bulls this way, the great herd filling
Valley and river. And the crazy Cacus,
Who never would lose a chance for crime or cunning,
Made off with four of the bulls and four sleek heifers,
Dragging them by their tails; the tracks would never
Prove he had driven them to his rocky cavern.
He hid them in the darkness; whoever looked
Would think they had gone not to, but from, the cave.
Meanwhile, as Hercules drove the well-fed herd
Out of the stables to the road again,
Some of them lowed in protest; hill and grove
Gave back the sound, and from the cave one heifer
Lowed in return. That was the doom of Cacus.
Black bile burned hot in Hercules; he grabbed
His weapons, his great knotted club, went rushing
Up to the mountain-top. Never before
Had men seen terror in the eyes of Cacus.
Swifter than wind, he dove into his cavern,
Shut himself in, shattered the links of iron
That held aloft the giant boulder, dropped it
To block the doorway, and Hercules came flinging
His angry strength against it, to no purpose.
This way he faced, and that, and gnashed his teeth
In sheer frustration; he went around the mountain
Three times, in burning rage; three times he battered
The bulkhead of the door; three times he rested,
Breathless and weary, on the floor of the valley.
Above the cavern ridge, a pointed rock,
All flint, cut sharp, with a sheer drop all around it,
Rose steep, a nesting place for kites and buzzards.
It leaned a little leftward toward the river.
This Hercules grabbed and shook, straining against it;
His right hand pushed and wrenched it loose; he shoved it,
With a sudden heave, down hill, and the heaven thundered,
The river ran backward and the banks jumped sideways,
And Cacus’ den stood open, that great palace
Under the rock, the chambered vault of shadows.
An earthquake, so, might bring to light the kingdoms
Of the world below the world, the pallid regions
Loathed by the gods, the gulf of gloom, where phantoms
Shiver and quake as light descends upon them.
So there was Cacus, desperate in the light,
Caught in the hollow rock, howling and roaring
As Hercules rained weapons down upon him,
Everything he could use, from boughs to millstones,
But Cacus still had one way out of the danger:
A cloud of smoke rolled out of his jaws; the cave
Darkened to utter blackness, thick night rolling
With fitful glints of fire. This was too much
For Hercules in his fury; he jumped down through it,
Through fire, where the smoke came rolling forth the thickest,
Where the black billows seethed around the cavern.
And Cacus, in the darkness, to no purpose
Poured forth his fire and smoke. Hercules grabbed him,
Twisted him into a knot, hung on and choked him
Till the eyes bulged out and the throat was dry of blood.
He tore the doors loose, and the house was open;
People could see the lost and stolen plunder,
And Hercules dragged the shapeless ugly carcass
Out by the feet, a fascinating object
For the gaze of men, the terrible eyes, the muzzle,
The hairy chest, and the fire dead in the gullet.
Ever since then we keep this day, rejoicing
In honor of our deliverance; Potitius
Was founder of the rite, Pinaria’s household
Custodian of the service. In this grove
We set our altar, calling it the greatest,
And greatest it shall be, to me, forever.
Join with us, then, in honor of all that glory,
Bind wreaths around your temples, reach the wine-cup,
Call with good-will upon our common god.”
He veiled his hair with the two-colored poplar
In Hercules’ honor, and held out the goblet;
All made libation and prayer.

And evening came,
And the priests went forth, Potitius first; they wore
The skins of beasts, and they were bearing torches.
The feast renewed, they brought the welcome viands
To a second table, loading, too, the altars.
And the Dancing Priests around the sacred altars
Lit fire and sang their songs. They too wore poplar,
Both groups, one old, one young, and chanted verses
In praise of Hercules, his deeds, his glories,
How first he strangled in his grip twin serpents,
The monsters Juno sent; how, great in war,
Troy and Oechalia went down before him;
How, under King Eurystheus, he bore
A thousand heavy toils, at Juno’s order.
“Hail, O unvanquished hero, whose hand brought low
Pholus, Hylaeus, the cloud-born double shapes,
Monsters of Crete and the Nemean lion.
The Stygian lakes trembled at Hercules’ crossing,
And Cerberus was frightened, in his cavern,
Lying on bones half-eaten. O unafraid
Of any monster, even Typhoeus, towering
High in his arms, even the snake of Lerna
With all its hissing heads,—hail, son of Jove,
Hail, glorious addition to the heavens!
Favor our rites and yours with gracious blessing!”
So they sang praises, and they crowned the service
With the tale of Cacus, that fire-breathing monster,
And hill and woodland echoed to the singing.

Then back to the city again; and old Evander
Kept his son Pallas near him and Aeneas,
Talking of various matters, so the journey
Was lightened, and the landscape charmed Aeneas,
Who wondered as he watched the scene, and questioned,
And learned its early legend. King Evander
Began the story:—“Native Nymphs and Fauns
Dwelt in these woodlands once, and a race of men
Sprung from the trunks of trees, or rugged oak,
Men primitive and rude, with little culture:
They had no knowledge of ploughing, none of harvest;
The fruits of the wild trees, the spoils of hunting,
Gave them their nourishment. Then Saturn came here,
Fleeing Jove’s arms, an exile from his kingdom.
He organized this race, unruly, scattered
Through the high mountains, gave them law and order.
He gave the place a name; Latium, he called it,
Since once he lay there safely, hiding in shelter.
Under his rule there came those golden ages
That people tell of, all the nations dwelling
In amity and peace. But little by little
A worse age came, lack-luster in its color,
And the madness of war, and the evil greed of having.
Then came the Ausonian bands, Sicanian peoples,
And the land of Saturn took on other names,
And the kings came, and the fierce giant Thybris
For whom we named our river; we forgot
Its older title, Albula. Here I came
An exile from my country, over the seas,
Driven by fate and fortune, which no man
Can cope with or escape. The nymph Carmentis,
My mother, led me here with solemn warnings
Under Apollo’s guidance.”

So Evander
Finished the tale, resumed the walk. They came,
First, to an altar and a gate: Carmental
The Romans call it, in honor of that nymph
Who first foretold the greatness of the Romans,
The glory of Pallanteum. Past the portal
They came to a spreading grove, a sanctuary
Restored by Romulus, and under the cold cliff
The Lupercal, named, in Arcadian fashion,
For the great god Pan. And then Evander showed him
The wood of Argiletum, and told the legend
Of the death of Argus, once a guest. From there
They went to the Tarpeian house, and a place
Golden as we now know it, once a thicket,
Once brush and briar, and now our Capitol.
Even then men trembled, fearful of a presence
Haunting this wood, this rock. “A god lives here,”
Evander said, “What god, we are not certain,
But certainly a god. Sometimes my people
Think they have seen, it may be, Jove himself
Clashing the darkening shield, massing the storm-cloud.
Here you can see two towns; the walls are shattered,
But they remind us still of men of old,
Two forts, one built by Janus, one by Saturn,
Janiculum, Saturnia.”

So they came,
Conversing with each other, to the dwelling
Where poor Evander lived, and saw the cattle
And heard them lowing, through the Roman forum,
The fashionable section of our city,
And as they came to the house itself, Evander
Remembered something,—“Hercules,” he said,
“Great victor that he was, bent head and shoulders
To enter here, and this house entertained him.
Dare, O my guest, to think of wealth as nothing,
Make yourself worthy of the god, and come here
Without contempt for poverty.” He led him,
The great Aeneas, under the low rafters,
Found him a couch, nothing but leaves, and the bedspread
A Libyan bear-skin. And night came rushing down
Dark-wingèd over the earth.

And Venus’ heart
Was anxious for her son, and with good reason,
Knowing the threats and tumult of the Latins.
She spoke to Vulcan, in that golden chamber
Where they were wife and husband, and her words
Were warm with love:—“When the Greek kings were tearing
Troy’s towers as they deserved, and the walls were fated
To fall to enemy fire, I sought no aid
For those poor people, I did not ask for weapons
Made by your art and power; no, dearest husband,
I would not put you to that useless labor,
Much as I owed to Priam’s sons, however
I sorrowed for my suffering Aeneas.
But now, at Jove’s command, he has made a landing
On the Rutulian coast; I come, a suppliant
To the great power I cherish, a mother asking
Arms for her son. If Thetis and Aurora
Could move you with their tears, behold what people
Unite against me, what cities sharpen weapons
Behind closed gates, intent on our destruction!”
So Venus pleaded, and as she saw him doubtful,
The goddess flung her snowy arms around him
In fondlement, in soft embrace, and fire
Ran through him; warmth, familiar to the marrow,
Softened his sternness, as at times in thunder
Light runs through cloud. She knew her charms, the goddess,
Rejoicing in them, conscious of her beauty,
Sure of the power of love, and heard his answer:—
“No need for far-fetched pleading, dearest goddess;
Have you no faith in me? You might have asked it
In those old days; I would have armed the Trojans,
And Jupiter and the fates might well have given
Another ten years of life to Troy and Priam.
Now, if your purpose is for war, I promise
Whatever careful craft I have, whatever
Command I have of iron or electrum,
Whatever fire and air can do. Your pleading
Is foolish; trust your power!” And he came to her
With the embrace they longed for, and on her bosom
Sank, later, into slumber.

And rose early
When night was little more than half way over,
The way a housewife must, who tends the spindle,
Rising to stir and wake the drowsing embers,
Working by night as well as day, and keeping
The housemaids at the task, all day, till lamplight,
A faithful wife, through toil, and a good mother,
Even so, like her, with no more self-indulgence,
The Lord of Fire rose early, from soft pillows
To the labor of the forge.

An island rises
Near the Sicanian coast and Lipare,
Aeolian land, steep over smoking rocks.
Below them roars a cavern, hollow vaults
Scooped out for forges, where the Cyclops pound
On the resounding anvils; lumps of steel
Hiss in the water, and the blasts of fire
Pant in the furnaces; here Vulcan dwells,
The place is called Vulcania, and here
The Lord of Fire comes down. In the great cave
The smiths were working iron; a thunderbolt
Such as Jove hurls from heaven, was almost finished,
Shaped by the hands of Brontes, Steropes,
And naked-limbed Pyracmon. They had added
Three rods of twisted rain and three of cloud,
And three of orange fire and wingèd wind,
And now they were working in the flash, the sound,
The fear, the anger, the pursuing flame.
Elsewhere a chariot for Mars was building
To harry men and cities; and for Pallas
An awful shield, with serpent scales of gold,
Snakes interwoven, and the Gorgon’s head,
Awaiting polish. The neck was severed, the eyes
Already seemed to roll, when Vulcan came
Crying, “Away with this! Another task
Demands your toil, your thought. Arms for a warrior!
Use all your strength, you need it now; exert
The flying hands, ply all your master skill,
Break off delay!” And all, obedient, bent
To the great task; the bronze, the golden ore
Run down like rivers, and the wounding steel
Melts in the furnace as they shape the shield,
Welding it, orb on orb, a sevenfold circle
Made one, for all the weapons of the Latins.
Some keep the bellows panting, others dip
The hissing bronze in water, and the anvil
Groans under the hammer-stroke. In turn they raise
Their arms in measured cadence, and the tongs
Take hold of the hot metal, twist and turn it.
So sped the work on Lemnos.

And Evander
Was wakened by the kindly light of morning
And bird-song under the eaves, and the old man rose,
Donned simple tunic and sandals, and hung on
His simple sword, and over his shoulders twisted
The panther hide, out of the way of the hilt.
Two hounds were all his bodyguard; he came,
So, to Aeneas’ cabin; he remembered
His words and promised service, found his guest
An early riser also; hand met hand,
And soon companions joined them, young prince Pallas,
Loyal Achates. They stroll a while, then settle
Themselves for conversation, and Evander
Is first to speak:—“Great captain of the Trojans,
I cannot, while you live, consider Troy
A beaten town, I cannot see her people
As anything but victors. I am sorry
Our power to help is meager. On one side
A river hems us in, and on the other
Rutulian armies thunder at our walls.
Still, I can find you, or I think so, allies,
Great people, an encampment rich in kingdoms,
An unexpected aid. The fates have brought you
To the right place. Not far away, Agylla,
A city built of ancient stone, lies waiting,
A town the Lydians founded; you know the race,
Renowned in war. It was a prosperous city
For many years, until Mezentius ruled it,
A cruel, arrogant man, sadist and savage.
God pay him back in kind! I cannot tell you
All his foul deeds: this will suffice;—he fastened
Live men to dead men, strapped their hands together,
Tied face to face, and killed them, slowly, slowly,
In the waste and stain and clasp of that long death.
They suffered long, his subjects, but at last
They rose in arms against him, his mad household,
Hurled fire to his roof-top, slaughtered his companions.
He fled that ruin to Rutulian fields,
Where Turnus’ weapons shielded him. Now all
Etruria, risen in arms, demands,
With threat of war, the king for punishment,
And you shall be the leader of those thousands
Who throng the shore with ships, whose cry is Forward!
But an old prophet holds them back, those warriors,
The pride and glory of an ancient people,
Whom a just grievance and a righteous anger
Inflames against Mezentius. It is not fated,
He says, for any native-born Italian
To tame a race so proud. Choose foreign leaders!
And so the Etruscan battle-lines have settled
Unwarlike on the plain, through heaven’s warning.
Tarchon himself has sent me envoys, bearing
The crown and sceptre, urging me to his camp,
Bidding me take the throne. But cold old age,
And years too thin for battle, these begrudge me
The high command. I would send my son, but Pallas
Comes from a Sabine mother; he is partly
A native-born Italian. You, Aeneas,
Possess the proper strength, the proper lineage,
The summons of the gods. Take up the burden!
My Pallas will go with you, my hope and comfort.
You are the one to teach him a soldier’s duty,
How to endure; let him learn from you in action,
Behold your deeds, and, in his youth, admire them.
I will give two hundred horsemen, young Arcadians,
The flower of our manhood; and two hundred
Will go with you besides in the name of Pallas.”

Aeneas and Achates, listening, brooded
With downcast gaze, in troubled speculation
Prolonging bitter thoughts, but Venus gave them
A sign from the bright heaven: a flash of thunder
Came from the cloudless sky, a blare of trumpets,
And all things suddenly shaken. They looked up swiftly;
Again, again, they heard the roar and rumble,
They saw arms redden in the clear of heaven,
Listened to thunder in cloud. And some were frightened;
Not so the Trojan: he knew his mother’s promise.
“Ask not, O friend, the meaning of the portent,”
He cried, “Olympus summons me; I know it.
This was the sign my goddess-mother promised
When war was near; she would bring me arms from Vulcan,
She said, to help us all. Alas! what slaughter
Waits for the Latins now! How costly, Turnus,
The price that must be paid me! Shields and helmets
And bodies of brave men, swept under Tiber.
Now let them call for battle, and break treaties!”

He rose and at his quickening the altars
Blazed into sudden fire; he paid his honors
To Hercules, to all the gods of household,
And all made sacrifice, sheep duly chosen.
Aeneas sought, once more, his ships, his comrades,
Chose, to attend him, those most brave in battle,
Despatched the rest down stream again with tidings
To take Ascanius of his father’s fortunes.
Horses are brought for all the Trojan leaders,
And for Aeneas the best, a charger, golden
With lion-skin caparison, claws gilded.

And rumor flies about the little city
Spreading the news of horsemen on their mission
To Tarchon’s shores, and mothers, in a panic,
Double their prayers, and fear comes nearer danger
With Mars’ great image looming large. Evander
Holds Pallas by the hand, cannot release him,
Speaks through his tears:—“If Jupiter would only
Bring me my lost years back, make me the man
I used to be, I was once, at Praeneste
Where I struck down the foremost ranks, and burned
The piled up shields! That day I was a hero,
A conqueror, and Erulus went down,
By this right hand, to hell. His mother gave him
Three lives, and threefold armor; I had to kill him
Three times, and did, and thrice I stripped his armor.
If I were what I used to be, my son,
They would never take you from me; and Mezentius
Would never have heaped those insults on his neighbor,
Never have made a widow of the city.
But you, great gods on high, and you, great king
Of the high gods, take pity on a father,
Hear the Arcadian king. I pray for life
As long as Pallas lives, I pray to see him
If you will spare him; if he comes back safely
I pray to meet him once again. No more
I ask; how hard my life may be, no matter.
But if there is in fortune any menace,
Something I cannot speak of, let me die
Before I know the worst, while I can hope
However I doubt, while still I have my Pallas,
My late and only pleasure, here beside me,
And never news for the worse!” And so they parted,
And servants helped the old man into the palace.

They had gone from the gates, the horsemen, and Aeneas,
Achates and the Trojans, and in the centre
Pallas, a blaze of light, like Lucifer
Whom Venus loves beyond all fiery stars,
The glory risen from the ocean wave,
Dissolver of the shadows. On the walls
The mothers, trembling, watched them go, the squadrons
Bright in their bronze, and the cloud of dust behind them,
So, out of sight, where the road turns off to forest,
They go, the men in arms, and a shout arises,
And the column forms, and the echo of the gallop
Comes clopping back through the ground where the dust is rising.

The cold stream, Caere, has a grove beside it,
Much reverenced of old, where the curve of the hills
And the dark firs make a shelter: the old people,
So rumor says, held grove and feast-day sacred
Here in Silvanus’ honor, god of the fields,
God of the fold. Tarchon and his Etruscans
Were camped not far from here, and from the hill-top
Watchers could see their legions, tented safely
Through the wide plain. In Caere’s grove Aeneas
Rested his horses and his weary warriors.

And the bright goddess through the clouds of heaven
Came bringing gifts, seeing her son alone
By the cold river in the quiet valley,
And spoke to him:—“Behold, the gifts made ready
By Vulcan’s promised skill. Fear not, my son,
To face the wars with Turnus and the Latins!”
After the word, the embrace. She placed the armor,
All shining in his sight, against an oak-tree;
Rejoicing in the gift, the honor, he turned
His eyes to these, over and over again,
Could not be satisfied, took in his hands
The helmet with the terrible plumes and flame,
The fatal sword, the breastplate, made of bronze,
Fire-colored, huge, shining the way a cloud,
Dark-blue, turns crimson under the slanting sun,
The greaves of gold refined and smooth electrum,
The spear, the final masterpiece, the shield.

Hereon the great prophetic Lord of Fire
Had carved the story out, the stock to come,
The wars, each one in order, all the tale
Of Italy and Roman triumph. Here
In Mars’ green cave the she-wolf gives her udders
To the twin boys, turning half round to lick them,
And neither is afraid, and both are playing.
Another scene presents the Circus-games,
When Romans took their Sabine brides, and war
Broke out between old Tatius and the sons
Of Romulus, and was ended, monarchs pledging
Peace at the altars over sacrifice.
Mettus, the false, by the wild horses drawn
And quartered, sheds his life-blood over the brambles;
Porsena, the besieger, rings the city
For Tarquin’s sake, exile and tyrant; Romans
Rush on the steel for freedom; Clelia breaks
Her bonds to swim the river; and Horatius
Breaks down the bridge. The guardian Manlius
Holds the high capitol and that crude palace
Fresh with the straw of Romulus; the goose
Flutters in silver through the colonnades
Shrieking alarm; the Gauls are near in darkness,
Golden their hair, their clothing, and their necks
Gleam white in collars of gold, and each one carries
Two Alpine javelins; they have long shields.
Near them, the Fire-god sets the priests with caps
Of wool, the miracle of the shields from heaven,
The Salii dancing, the Luperci naked,
And the chaste matrons riding through the city
In cushioned chariots. Far off, he adds
The seats of Hell, the lofty gates of Pluto,
Penance for sin: Catiline, with the Furies
Making him cower; farther off, the good,
With Cato giving laws. And all this scene
Bound with the likeness of the swelling ocean,
Blue water and whitecap, where the dolphins playing
Leap with a curve of silver. In the center
Actium, the ships of bronze, Leucate burning
Hot with the glow of war, and waves on fire
With molten gold. Augustus Caesar stands
High on the lofty stern; his temples flame
With double fire, and over his head there dawns
His father’s star. Agrippa leads a column
With favoring wind and god, the naval garland
Wreathing his temples. Antony assembles
Egypt and all the East; Antony, victor
Over the lands of dawn and the Red Sea,
Marshals the foes of Rome, himself a Roman,
With—horror!—an Egyptian wife. The surge
Boils under keel, the oar-blades churn the waters,
The triple-pointed beaks drive through the billows,
You would think that mountains swam and battled mountains,
That islands were uprooted in their anger.
Fireballs and shafts of steel are slanting showers,
The fields of Neptune redden with the slaughter.
The queen drives on her warriors, unseeing
The double snakes of death; rattle and cymbals
Compete with bugle and trumpet. Monstrous gods,
Of every form and fashion, one, Anubis,
Shaped like a dog, wield their outrageous weapons
In wrath at Venus, Neptune, and Minerva.
Mars, all in steel, storms through the fray; the Furies
Swoop from the sky; Discord exults; Bellona,
With bloody scourge, comes lashing; and Apollo
From Actium bends his bow. Egypt and India,
Sabaeans and Arabians, flee in terror.
And the contagion takes the queen, who loosens
The sheets to slackness, courts the wind, in terror,
Pale at the menace of death. And the Nile comes
To meet her, a protecting god, his mantle
Spread wide, to bring a beaten woman home.
And Caesar enters Rome triumphant, bringing
Immortal offerings, three times a hundred
New altars through the city. Streets are loud
With gladness, games, rejoicing; all the temples
Are filled with matrons praying at the altars,
Are heaped with solemn sacrifice. And Caesar,
Seated before Apollo’s shining threshold,
Reviews the gifts, and hangs them on the portals.
In long array the conquered file, their garments,
Their speech, as various as their arms, the Nomads,
The naked Africans, Leleges, Carians,
Gelonians with quivers, the Morini,
Of mortals most remote, Euphrates moving
With humbler waves, the two-mouthed Rhine, Araxes,
Chafing beneath his bridge.

All this Aeneas
Sees on his mother’s gift, the shield of Vulcan,
And, without understanding, is proud and happy
As he lifts to his shoulder all that fortune,
The fame and glory of his children’s children.