Which Jove sends down to scourge the land;
A part was barbed and formed to kill,
A part remained imperfect still.
Three rays they took of forky hail,
Of watery cloud three rays,
Three of the winged southern gale,
Three of the ruddy blaze:
Now wrath they mingle, swift to harm,
And glare, and noise, and loud alarm.
Elsewhere for Mars they plan the car
Wherewith he maddens into war
Strong towns and spearmen bold,
And burnish Pallas’ shirt of mail,
The Ægis, bright with dragon’s scale
And netted rings of gold:
The twisted serpent-locks they shape
And Gorgon’s head, lopped at the nape:
Her dying eyes yet rolled.
‘Away with these,’ he cried, ‘away,
My sons, and list what now I say:
A mighty chief of arms has need:
Now prove your skill, your strength, your speed.
Begone, delay!’ No further speech:
Each takes the part assigned to each,
And plies the work with zeal:
In streams the gold, the copper flows,
And in the mighty furnace glows
The death-inflicting steel.
A shield they plan, whose single guard
May all the blows of Latium ward,
And fold on fold together bind,
Seven circles round one centre twined.
Some make the windy bellows heave,
Now give forth air, and now receive:
The copper hisses in the wave:
The anvils press the groaning cave.
With measured cadence each and all
The giant hammers rise and fall:
The griping pincers, deftly plied,
Turn the rough oar from side to side.
Bestirs the brethren of the fire,
The gracious dawn, the vocal bird
Beneath his eaves at daybreak heard
Bid old Evander rise:
A linen tunic he indues,
And round his feet Tyrrhenian shoes
In rustic fashion ties:
A sword he fastens to his side,
And wears for scarf a panther’s hide.
Two watch- dogs from the palace-gate
Come forth, and on their master wait.
So, mindful of his plighted word,
He seeks his guest, the Trojan lord.
Æneas too with willing feet
As early moves his host to meet.
Achates on his chief attends:
Beside Evander walks his son:
Each, guest and host, his hand extends:
They sit them down and talk as friends,
When thus the king begun:
‘Great chief of Troy, whose safety shows
That Ilium still survives her foes,
Albeit a mighty name be ours,
Yet scanty are our martial powers;
Here Tiber bounds us, there the din
Of Rutule warfare hems us in:
Strong succour ne’ertheless I bring,
Great nations, rich with many a king:
By chance they stand before our gate:
You join us at the call of Fate.
Far hence Agylla’s city stands,
Built, like our own, by alien hands:
There warlike Lydia’s ancient stock
Is planted on the Etruscan rock.
Long years of prosperous empire past,
Mezentius took the throne at last,
By arms compelled them to obey,
And governed with a tyrant’s sway.
Why tell the blood the monster spilt,
Each freak of madness or of guilt?
Nay — Heaven return it on his head! —
He chained the living to the dead,
Hand joined to hand and face to face
In noisome pestilent embrace;
So trickling down with foul decay
They wore their lingering lives away.
But wearied out with tyrannies,
In arms at length his people rise,
Besiege his gates, his guards lay low,
And firebrands to his roof-tree throw.
He ’mid the tumult of the strife,
So Fortune willed, escapes with life,
To haughty Turnus’ kingdom flies,
And hides him with hid old allies.
Etruria glows with righteous ire:
All, sheathed in arms, his head require.
Now, gallant guest, this numerous band
I offer to your sole command:
Around the shore their vessels crowd
And call for action, fierce and loud;
An aged seer their speed restrains,
Rehearsing things which Heaven ordains:
“Brave sons of brave Mæonian sires,
Whom dark Mezentius’ rule inspires
With wrath and righteous grief,
No leader of Italian blood
May head so vast a multitude:
Choose ye a foreign chief.”
Scared by Heaven’s voice, the Etruscan train
Sits down in arms in yonder plain.
An envoy, sent from Tarchon, brings
The sceptre of Etruria’s kings,
And bids me join the camp, and wear
The crown, and be the kingdom’s heir.
But envious age, for war too late,
Forbids Evander to be great.
My son perchance the host might lead,
But, born of Sabine mother’s seed,
A half Italian he:
You, blest alike in age and race,
Assume, brave prince, the chieftain’s place
O’er Troy and Italy.
Nay more, my hope, my only joy,
I give you too, my noble boy:
The martial lore of service stern
Beneath your conduct he shall learn,
With reverence on your actions gaze,
And tread your steps from earliest days.
Two hundred men, with each his steed,
I send with him, Areadia’s breed,
And Pallas from his own good store
Shall furnish forth two hundred more.’
E’en as he spoke, in thought profound
The chiefs of Troy perused the ground:
Chill fears came thick, when lo! from heaven
A sudden sign, by Venus given.
Swift runs athwart the sky’s clear field
A thunder and a glare:
All Nature to her centre reeled,
And east and west through ether pealed
The Tyrrhene trumpet’s blare.
They look: yet once and once again
Deep growls the thunder in his den;
And armour veiled in cloud is seen
High in the azure space serene
To glimmer with a ruddy sheen
And hurtle in the air.
The rest in wonder pause spell-bound:
Æneas hails the expected sound
And owns his mother’s hand.
‘Ask not,’ he cries, ‘much-honoured friend,
What chance these prodigies portend:
’Tis I the skies demand:
This sign to send my mother vowed,
If war was on the wing:
Herself to aid me through the cloud
Vulcanian arms would bring.
Alas!
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