the seaboard’s length their ships are swarming and panting
for the fray, and calling on the trumpet to sound, 30
while an aged soothsayer is holding them back by his
fateful utterance: ‘Chosen warriors of Mæonian land, the
power and soul of an ancient nation, whom just resentment
launches against the foe and Mezentius inflames with
righteous fury, no Italian may take the reins of a race so 35
proud: choose foreigners to lead you.’ At this the Etruscan
army settled down on yonder plain, awed by the
heavenly warning. Tarchon[o] himself has sent me ambassadors