The hoarse trumpet gives its deathful warning for battle.
The walls are hemmed by a motley ring of matrons and
boys: the call of the last struggle rings in each one’s ear.
Moreover the queen among a vast train of Latian mothers
is drawn to the temple, even to Pallas’ tower on the height, 25
with presents in her hand, and at her side the maid Lavinia,
cause of this cruel woe, her beauteous eyes cast down.
The matrons enter the temple and make it steam with
incense, and pour from the august threshold their plaints
of sorrow: “Lady of arms, mistress of the war, Tritonian[o] 30