I. While thus in distant quarter moves the scene,
Down to the daring Turnus from the skies
Comes [Iris,] sent by the Saturnian queen.
Him seated in a hallowed vale, where lies
His father's grove, [Pilumnus',] she espies.
There straight with rosy lips the daughter fair
Of [Thaumas] hails the hero: "Turnus, rise.
Behold what none of all the Gods would dare		1
To promise, rolling Time hath proffered without prayer.
II. "Fleet left and friends, Æneas to the court
Of Palatine Evander speeds his way,
Nay, the far towns of Corythus hath sought,
And arms the Lydian swains to meet the fray!
Now call for steel and chariot. Why delay?
Surprise the camp and capture it."—She said,
And straight on balanced pinions soared away,
Cleaving the bow. The warrior marked, and spread		10
His hands, and thus with prayer pursued her as she fled:
III. "O Iris, Heaven's fair glory, who hath sent
Thee hither? whence this sudden light so clear?
I see the firmament asunder rent,
And planets wandering in the polar sphere.
Blest omens, hail! I follow thee, whoe'er
Thou art, that call'st to battle." He arose
With joy, and stepping to the streamlet near,
Scoops up the water in his palms, and bows		19
In suppliance to the Gods, and burdens Heaven with vows.
IV. Now all the host were marching on the meads,
Well-horsed, and panoplied in golden gear,
With broidered raiment. Brave Messapus leads
The van, the sons of Tyrrheus close the rear,
And Turnus in mid column shakes his spear.
Slow moves the host, as when his seven-fold head
Great Ganges lifts in silence, calm and clear,
Or Nile, whose flood the fruitful soil hath fed,		28
Ebbs from the fattened fields, and hides him in his bed.
V. Far off, the Teucrians from their camp descried
The gathering dust-cloud on the plains appear.
Then brave Caïcus from a bastion cried,
"What dark mass, rolling towards us, have we here?
Arm, townsmen, arm! Bring quick the sword and spear,
And mount the battlements, and man the wall.
The foemen, ho!" And with a mighty cheer
The Teucrians, hurrying at the warning call,		37
Pour in through all the gates, and muster on the wall.
VI. So, parting, wise Æneas gave command,
Should chance surprise them, with their chief away,
To shun the field, nor battle hand to hand,
But safe behind their sheltering earthworks stay,
And, guarding wall and rampart, stand at bay.
So now, though passion and indignant hate
Prompt to engage, his mandate they obey,
And bar each inlet, and secure each gate,		46
And, armed, in sheltering towers their enemies await.
VII. Turnus, with twenty horsemen, left the rest
To lag behind, and near the town-gate drew
All unforeseen. A Thracian steed he pressed,
Dappled with white; a crest of scarlet hue
High o'er his golden helmet flamed in view.
Loudly he shrills in anger to his train,
"Who first with me will at the foemen—who?
See there!" and, rising hurls his spear amain,		55
Sign of the fight begun, and pricks along the plain.
VIII. With shouts his comrades welcome the attack,
And clamouring fiercely follow in his train.
They marvel at the Teucrian hearts so slack,
That none will dare to trust the open plain,
And fight like men, but in the camp remain,
And safe behind their sheltering rampart stay.
Now here, now there, fierce Turnus in disdain
Rides round the walls, and, searching for a way,		64
Where way is none, still strives an entrance to essay.
IX. As wolf, in ambush by the fold, sore beat
With winds, at midnight howls amid the rain.
The lambs beneath their mothers safely bleat.
He, mad with rage, and faint with famine's pain,
Thirsts for their blood, and ramps at them in vain;
So raves fierce Turnus, as his eyes survey
The walls and camp. Grief burns in every vein,
As round he looks for access and a way		73
To shake the Teucrians out, and strew them forth to slay.
X. The fleet, as by the flanking camp it lies,
Fenced by the river and the mounded sand,
He marks, then loudly to the burning cries,
And with a flaming pinestock fills his hand,
Himself aflame. His presence cheers the band.
All set to work, and strip the watchfires bare:
Each warrior arms him with a murky brand:
The smoking torch shoots up a pitchy glare,		82
And clouds of mingled soot the Fire-god flings in air.