Soon o'er the spreading fields in proud arraythe gathered legions poured; no lack was thereof steeds all fire, and broidered pomp and gold.Messapus led the van; in rearguard rodethe sons of Tyrrheus; kingly Turnus toweredfrom the mid-column eminent: the hostmoved as great Ganges lifting silentlyhis seven peaceful streams, or when the floodof fructifying Nile from many a field back to his channel flows. A swift-blown cloudof black, uprolling dust the Teucrians seeo'ershadowing the plain; Calcus callsfrom 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 loudthe Teucrians through the city-gates retire,and muster on the walls. For, wise in war,Aeneas, ere he went, had left commandthey should not range in battle-line, nor dare,whate'er might hap, to risk in open plainthe bold sortie, but keep them safe entrenchedin mounded walls. So now, though rage and shameprick to a close fight, they defensive bareach portal strong, and, patient of control,from hollow towers expect th' encircling foe.

Turnus, at full speed, had outridden farhis laggard host, and, leading in his traina score of chosen knights, dashed into viewhard by the walls. A barb of Thracian breeddappled with white he rode; a crimson plumeflamed over his golden helmet. “Who,” he cries,“Is foremost at the foe? Who follows me?Behold!” And, with the word, he hurled in aira 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 givefair, equal vantage, matching man to man,but cuddle into camp.” This way and thatTurnus careers, and stormily surveysthe frowning rampart, and where way is nonesome entering breach would find: so prowls a wolfnigh the full sheepfold, and through wind and rainstands howling at the postern all night long;beneath the ewes their bleating lambs lie safe;but he, with undesisting fury, morerages from far, made frantic for his preyby hunger of long hours, his foaming jawsathirst for blood: not less the envy burnedof the Rutulian, as he scanned in vainthe stronghold of his foe. Indignant scornthrilled all his iron frame. But how contriveto storm the fortress or by force expelthe Trojans from the rampart, and dispersealong the plain? Straightway he spied the ships,in hiding near the camp, defended wellby mounded river-bank and fleeting wave.On these he fell; while his exultant crewbrought firebrands, and he with heart aflamegrasped with a vengeful hand the blazing pine.To the wild work his followers sped; for whocould prove him craven under Turnus' eye?The whole troop for the weapon of their rageseized 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 thenfrom wrathful flame? Who shielded then the fleet,I pray you tell, from bursting storm of fire?From hoary eld the tale, but its renownsings on forever. When Aeneas firston Phrygian Ida hewed the sacred woodfor rib and spar, and soon would put to sea,that mighty mother of the gods, they say,the Berecynthian goddess, thus to Joveaddressed her plea: “Grant, O my son, a boon,which thy dear mother asks, who aided theeto quell Olympian war. A grove I haveof sacred pine, long-loved from year to year.On lofty hill it grew, and thither camemy worshippers with gifts, in secret gloomof pine-trees dark and shadowing maple-boughs.;these on the Dardan warrior at his needI, not unwilling, for his fleet bestowed.But I have fears. O, Iet a parent's prayerin this prevail, and bid my care begone!Let not rude voyages nor the shock of stormmy ships subdue, but let their sacred birthon my charmed hills their strength and safety be!”Then spake her son, who guides the wheeling spheres:“Wouldst thou, my mother, strive to overswaythe course of Fate? What means this prayer of thine?Can it be granted ships of mortal mouldto wear immortal being? Wouldst thou seeAeneas pass undoubting and securethrough doubtful strait and peril? On what godwas e'er such power bestowed? Yet will I granta different boon. Whatever ships shall finda safe Ausonian haven, and conveysafe through the seas to yon Laurentian plainthe Dardan King, from such I will removetheir perishable shapes, and bid them besea-nymphs divine, like Nereus' daughters fair,Doto and Galatea, whose white breastsdivide the foaming wave.” He said, and sworeby his Tartarean brother's mournful stream,the pitch-black floods and dark engulfing shoreof Styx; then great Jove bowed his head, and allOlympus quaked at his consenting brow.

Now was the promised day at hand (for Fatehad woven the web so far) when Turnus' ragestirred the divine progenitress to saveher sacred ships from fire. Then sudden shonea strange effulgence in the eastern air;and in a storm-cloud wafted o'er the skywere Corybantic choirs, whose dreadful songsmote both on Teucrian and Rutulian ear:“O Teucrians, fear not for the sure defenceof all the ships, nor arm your mortal hands.Yon impious Turnus shall burn up the seasbefore my pine-trees blest. Arise! Be free,ye goddesses of ocean, and obeyyour mother's mighty word.” Then instant brokethe hawsers of the sterns; the beaked prowswent plunging like great dolphins from the shoredown 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 stillin panic, and Messapus terrifiedhis trembling horses reined; the sacred streamof Father Tiber, harshly murmuring,held back his flood and checked his seaward way.But Turnus' courage failed not; he alonehis followers roused, and with reproachful wordsalone spoke forth: “These signs and prodigiesthreaten the Trojan only. Jove himselfhas stripped them of their wonted strength: no morecan they abide our deadly sword and fire.The Trojan path to sea is shut. What hopeof flight is left them now? The half their causeis fallen. The possession of this landis ours already; thousands of sharp swordsItalia's nations bring. Small fear have Iof Phrygia's boasted omens. What to metheir oracles from heaven? The will of Fateand Venus have achieved their uttermostin casting on Ausonia's fruitful shoreyon sons of Troy. I too have destinies: and mine, good match for theirs, with this true bladewill spill the blood of all the baneful brood,in vengeance for my stolen wife. Such wrongsmove not on Atreus' sons alone, nor rouseonly Mycenae to a righteous war.Say you, ‘Troy falls but once?’ One crime, say I,should have contented them; and now their soulsshould little less than loathe all womankind.These are the sort of soldiers that be bravebehind entrenchment, where the moated wallsmay stem the foe and make a little roombetwixt themselves and death. Did they not seehow Troy's vast bulwark built by Neptune's handcrumbled in flame? Forward, my chosen brave!Who follows me to cleave his deadly waythrough yonder battlement, and leap like stormupon its craven guard? I have no needof arms from Vulcan's smithy; nor of shipsa thousand strong against our Teucrian foes,though all Etruria's league enlarge their power.Let them not fear dark nights, nor coward theftof Pallas' shrine, nor murdered sentinelson their acropolis. We shall not hidein blinding belly of a horse. But Iin public eye and open day intendto compass their weak wall with siege and fire.I'll prove them we be no Pelasgic band,no Danaan warriors, such as Hector's armten years withstood. But look! this day hath spentits better part. In what remains, rejoicein noble deeds well done; let weary fleshhave rest and food. My warriors, husband wellyour strength against to-morrow's hopeful war.”Meanwhile to block their gates with wakeful guardis made Messapus' work, and to gird roundtheir camp with watchfires. Then a chosen band,twice seven Rutulian chieftains, man the wallswith soldiery; each leads a hundred mencrested with crimson, armed with glittering gold.Some post to separate sentries, and preparealternate vigil; others, couched on grass,laugh round the wine and lift the brazen bowls.The camp-fires cheerly burn; the jovial guardspend the long, sleepless night in sport and game.