horses, the first token of heaven’s will, browsing the 25
meadow at large, of snowy whiteness. And Anchises, my
father, breaks forth: ‘War is on thy front, land of the
stranger; for war thy horses are prepared; war is threatened
by the cattle we see. Still, these beasts no less are trained
one day to stoop to the car, and carry harness and curb 30
in harmony with the yoke; yes,’ cries he, ‘there is hope
of peace, too.’ With that we make our prayers to the
sacred majesty of Pallas, queen of clanging arms, the first
to welcome us in the hour of our joy; and, according to