Next, Virbius in martial beauty rode,son of Hippolytus, whose mother, proudAricia, sent him in his flower of fameout of Egeria's hills and cloudy groveswhere lies Diana's gracious, gifted fane.For legend whispers that Hippolytus,by step-dame's plot undone, his life-blood gaveto sate his vengeful father, and was rentin sunder by wild horses; but the graveto air of heaven and prospect of the starsrestored him;—for Diana's love and carepoured out upon him Paeon's healing balm.But Jove, almighty Sire, brooked not to seea mortal out of death and dark reclimbto light of life, and with a thunderbolthurled to the Stygian river Phoebus' son,who dared such good elixir to compound.But pitying Trivia hid Hippolytusin her most secret cave, and gave in wardto the wise nymph Egeria in her grove;where he lived on inglorious and alone,ranging the woods of Italy, and borethe name of Virbius. 'T is for this causethe hallowed woods to Trivia's temple vowedforbid loud-footed horses, such as spilledstripling and chariot on the fatal shore,scared by the monsters peering from the sea.Yet did the son o'er that tumultuous plainhis battle-chariot guide and plunging team.

Lo, Turnus strides conspicuous in the van,full armed, of mighty frame, his lordly headhigh o'er his peers emerging! His tall helmwith flowing triple crest for ensign bearsChimaera, whose terrific lips outpourvolcanic fires; where'er the menace movesof her infernal flames and wrathful frown,there wildest flows the purple flood of war.On his smooth shield deep graven in the goldis horned Io—wondrous the device!—a shaggy heifer-shape the maiden shows;Argus is watching her, while Inachuspours forth his river from the pictured urn.A storm of tramping troops, to Turnus sworn,throngs all the widespread plain with serried shields:warriors of Argos, and Auruncan bands,Sicani, Rutuli, Sacranian hosts,Labicum's painted shields; all who tillthy woodland vales, O Tiber! or the shoreNumicius hallows; all whose ploughs upturnRutulia's hills, or that Circaean rangewhere Jove of Anxur guards, and forests greenmake fair Feronia glad; where lie the fensof Satura, and Ufens' icy wavethrough lowland valleys seeks his seaward way.

Last came Camilla, of the Volscians bred,leading her mail-clad, radiant chivalry;a warrior-virgin, of Minerva's craftof web and distaff, fit for woman's toil,no follower she; but bared her virgin breastto meet the brunt of battle, and her speedleft even the winds behind; for she would skiman untouched harvest ere the sickle fell,nor graze the quivering wheat-tops as she ran;or o'er the mid-sea billows' swollen surgeso swiftly race, she wet not in the waveher flying feet. For sight of her the youthfrom field and fortress sped, and matrons gravestood wondering as she passed, well-pleased to seeher royal scarf in many a purple foldfloat off her shining shoulder, her dark hairin golden clasp caught fast, and how she borefor arms a quiver of the Lycian mode,and shepherd's shaft of myrtle tipped with steel.

When Turnus from Laurentum's bastion proudpublished the war, and roused the dreadful noteof the harsh trumpet's song; when on swift steedsthe lash he laid and clashed his sounding arms;then woke each warrior soul; all Latium stirredwith tumult and alarm; and martial rageenkindled youth's hot blood. The chieftains proud,Messapus, Ufens, and that foe of Heaven,Mezentius, compel from far and widetheir loyal hosts, and strip the field and farmof husbandmen. To seek auxiliar armsthey send to glorious Diomed's domainthe herald Venulus, and bid him cry:“Troy is to Latium come; Aeneas' fleethas come to land. He brings his vanquished gods,and gives himself to be our destined King.Cities not few accept him, and his namethrough Latium waxes large. But what the foeby such attempt intends, what victoryis his presumptuous hope, if Fortune smile,Aetolia's lord will not less wisely fearthan royal Turnus or our Latin King.”

Thus Latium's cause moved on. Meanwhile the heirof great Laomedon, who knew full wellthe whole wide land astir, was vexed and tossedin troubled seas of care. This way and thathis swift thoughts flew, and scanned with like dismayeach partial peril or the general storm.Thus the vexed waters at a fountain's brim,smitten by sunshine or the silver sphereof a reflected moon, send forth a beamof flickering light that leaps from wall to wall,or, skyward lifted in ethereal flight,glances along some rich-wrought, vaulted dome.Now night had fallen, and all weary things,all shapes of beast or bird, the wide world o'er,lay deep in slumber. So beneath the archof a cold sky Aeneas laid him downupon the river-bank, his heart sore triedby so much war and sorrow, and gave o'erhis body to its Iong-delayed repose.There, 'twixt the poplars by the gentle stream,the River-Father, genius of that place,old Tiberinus visibly uprose;a cloak of gray-green lawn he wore, his hairo'erhung with wreath of reeds. In soothing wordsthus, to console Aeneas' cares, he spoke: