Soon o'er the spreading fields in proud array the gathered legions poured; no lack was there of steeds all fire, and broidered pomp and gold. Messapus led the van; in rearguard rode the sons of Tyrrheus; kingly Turnus towered from the mid-column eminent: the host moved as great Ganges lifting silently his seven peaceful streams, or when the flood of fructifying Nile from many a field back to his channel flows. A swift-blown cloud of black, uprolling dust the Teucrians see o'ershadowing the plain; Calcus calls from lofty outpost: “O my countrymen, I see a huge, black ball of rolling smoke. Your swords and lances! Man the walls! To arms! The foe is here! What ho!” With clamors loud the Teucrians through the city-gates retire, and muster on the walls. For, wise in war, Aeneas, ere he went, had left command they should not range in battle-line, nor dare, whate'er might hap, to risk in open plain the bold sortie, but keep them safe entrenched in mounded walls. So now, though rage and shame prick to a close fight, they defensive bar each portal strong, and, patient of control, from hollow towers expect th' encircling foe. Turnus, at full speed, had outridden far his laggard host, and, leading in his train a score of chosen knights, dashed into view hard by the walls. A barb of Thracian breed dappled with white he rode; a crimson plume flamed over his golden helmet. “Who,” he cries, “Is foremost at the foe? Who follows me? Behold!” And, with the word, he hurled in air a javelin, provoking instant war: and, towering from his horse, charged o'er the field. With answering shout his men-at-arms pursue, and war-cries terrible. They laugh to scorn “the craven hearts of Troy , that cannot give fair, equal vantage, matching man to man, but cuddle into camp.” This way and that Turnus careers, and stormily surveys the frowning rampart, and where way is none some entering breach would find: so prowls a wolf nigh the full sheepfold, and through wind and rain stands howling at the postern all night long; beneath the ewes their bleating lambs lie safe; but he, with undesisting fury, more rages from far, made frantic for his prey by hunger of long hours, his foaming jaws athirst for blood: not less the envy burned of the Rutulian, as he scanned in vain the stronghold of his foe. Indignant scorn thrilled all his iron frame. But how contrive to storm the fortress or by force expel the Trojans from the rampart, and disperse along the plain? Straightway he spied the ships, in hiding near the camp, defended well by mounded river-bank and fleeting wave. On these he fell; while his exultant crew brought firebrands, and he with heart aflame grasped with a vengeful hand the blazing pine. To the wild work his followers sped; for who could prove him craven under Turnus' eye? The whole troop for the weapon of their rage seized smoking coals, of many a hearth the spoil; red glare of fuming torches burned abroad, and Vulcan starward flung a sparkling cloud. What god, O Muses, saved the Trojans then from wrathful flame? Who shielded then the fleet, I pray you tell, from bursting storm of fire? From hoary eld the tale, but its renown sings on forever. When Aeneas first on Phrygian Ida hewed the sacred wood for rib and spar, and soon would put to sea, that mighty mother of the gods, they say, the Berecynthian goddess, thus to Jove addressed her plea: “Grant, O my son, a boon, which thy dear mother asks, who aided thee to quell Olympian war. A grove I have of sacred pine, long-loved from year to year. On lofty hill it grew, and thither came my worshippers with gifts, in secret gloom of pine-trees dark and shadowing maple-boughs.; these on the Dardan warrior at his need I, not unwilling, for his fleet bestowed. But I have fears. O, Iet a parent's prayer in this prevail, and bid my care begone! Let not rude voyages nor the shock of storm my ships subdue, but let their sacred birth on my charmed hills their strength and safety be!” Then spake her son, who guides the wheeling spheres: “Wouldst thou, my mother, strive to oversway the course of Fate? What means this prayer of thine? Can it be granted ships of mortal mould to wear immortal being? Wouldst thou see Aeneas pass undoubting and secure through doubtful strait and peril? On what god was e'er such power bestowed? Yet will I grant a different boon. Whatever ships shall find a safe Ausonian haven, and convey safe through the seas to yon Laurentian plain the Dardan King, from such I will remove their perishable shapes, and bid them be sea-nymphs divine, like Nereus' daughters fair, Doto and Galatea, whose white breasts divide the foaming wave.” He said, and swore by his Tartarean brother's mournful stream, the pitch-black floods and dark engulfing shore of Styx; then great Jove bowed his head, and all Olympus quaked at his consenting brow. Now was the promised day at hand (for Fate had woven the web so far) when Turnus' rage stirred the divine progenitress to save her sacred ships from fire. Then sudden shone a strange effulgence in the eastern air; and in a storm-cloud wafted o'er the sky were Corybantic choirs, whose dreadful song smote both on Teucrian and Rutulian ear: “O Teucrians, fear not for the sure defence of all the ships, nor arm your mortal hands. Yon impious Turnus shall burn up the seas before my pine-trees blest. Arise! Be free, ye goddesses of ocean, and obey your mother's mighty word.” Then instant broke the hawsers of the sterns; the beaked prows went plunging like great dolphins from the shore down to the deeps, and, wonderful to tell, the forms of virgin goddesses uprose, one for each ship, and seaward sped away. The hearts of the Rutulian host stood still in panic, and Messapus terrified his trembling horses reined; the sacred stream of Father Tiber, harshly murmuring, held back his flood and checked his seaward way. But Turnus' courage failed not; he alone his followers roused, and with reproachful words alone spoke forth: “These signs and prodigies threaten the Trojan only. Jove himself has stripped them of their wonted strength: no more can they abide our deadly sword and fire. The Trojan path to sea is shut. What hope of flight is left them now? The half their cause is fallen. The possession of this land is ours already; thousands of sharp swords Italia 's nations bring. Small fear have I of Phrygia 's boasted omens. What to me their oracles from heaven? The will of Fate and Venus have achieved their uttermost in casting on Ausonia's fruitful shore yon sons of Troy . I too have destinies: and mine, good match for theirs, with this true blade will spill the blood of all the baneful brood, in vengeance for my stolen wife. Such wrongs move not on Atreus' sons alone, nor rouse only Mycenae to a righteous war. Say you, ‘ Troy falls but once?’ One crime, say I, should have contented them; and now their souls should little less than loathe all womankind. These are the sort of soldiers that be brave behind entrenchment, where the moated walls may stem the foe and make a little room betwixt themselves and death. Did they not see how Troy 's vast bulwark built by Neptune's hand crumbled in flame? Forward, my chosen brave! Who follows me to cleave his deadly way through yonder battlement, and leap like storm upon its craven guard? I have no need of arms from Vulcan's smithy; nor of ships a thousand strong against our Teucrian foes, though all Etruria's league enlarge their power. Let them not fear dark nights, nor coward theft of Pallas' shrine, nor murdered sentinels on their acropolis. We shall not hide in blinding belly of a horse. But I in public eye and open day intend to compass their weak wall with siege and fire. I'll prove them we be no Pelasgic band, no Danaan warriors, such as Hector's arm ten years withstood. But look! this day hath spent its better part. In what remains, rejoice in noble deeds well done; let weary flesh have rest and food. My warriors, husband well your strength against to-morrow's hopeful war.” Meanwhile to block their gates with wakeful guard is made Messapus' work, and to gird round their camp with watchfires. Then a chosen band, twice seven Rutulian chieftains, man the walls with soldiery; each leads a hundred men crested with crimson, armed with glittering gold. Some post to separate sentries, and prepare alternate vigil; others, couched on grass, laugh round the wine and lift the brazen bowls. The camp-fires cheerly burn; the jovial guard spend the long, sleepless night in sport and game.