LXXV. "And fresh blood stains the weapons chance supplied.
Such joy the bridal to Latinus bear,
And Venus' wondrous offspring, and his bride.
But thou—for scarce Olympus' king would bear
Thy lawless roving in ethereal air,—
Give place; myself will guide the rest aright."
Saturnia spoke; Alecto then and there
Her wings, that hiss with serpents, spreads for flight,		667
And to Cocytus dives, and leaves the realms of light.
LXXVI. In mid Italia lies a vale renowned,
Amsanctus. Dark woods down the mountain grow
This side and that; a torrent with the sound
Of thunder roars among the rocks below.
There, black as night, an awful cave they show,
The gorge of Dis. Dread Acheron from beneath
Bursts in a whirlpool, with its waves of woe,
And jaws that gape with pestilential death.		676
There plunged the hateful Fiend, and earth and air took breath.
LXXVII. Nor less, meanwhile, Saturnia hastes to crown
The war's mad tumult. Home the shepherds bore
Their dead from out the battle to the town.
Young Almo, and Galæsus, fouled with gore.
All bid Latinus witness, and implore
The gods, and while the blood-cry calls for flame
And slaughter, Turnus swells the wild uproar.
What! he an outcast? Shall the Trojans claim		685
The realm, and bastards dare the Latin race to shame?
LXXVIII. Then they, whose mothers through the pathless vales
And forests, fired with Bacchic frenzy, ply
Their orgies—so Amata's name prevails—
Come forth, and, gathering from far and nigh,
Weary the War-god with their clamorous cry,
Till, thwarting Heaven's high purpose, each and all
Omens at once and oracles defy,
And swarm around Latinus in his hall,		694
War now is all their wish, "to arms" the general call.
LXXIX. Firm stands the monarch as a sea-girt rock,
A sea-girt rock against the roaring main,
Which, spite of barking billows and the shock
Of Ocean, doth its own huge mass sustain.
The foaming crags around it chafe in vain,
And back it flings the seaweed from its side.
Too weak at length their madness to restrain,
For things move on as Juno's whims decide,		703
Oft to the gods, and oft to empty air he cried.
LXXX. "Ah me! the tempest hurries us along.
Fate grinds us sore. Poor Latins! ye must sate,
Your blood must pay, the forfeit for your wrong.
Thee, Turnus, thee the avenging fiends await,
Thou, too, the gods shalt weary, but too late.
My rest is won, and in the port I ride;
Happy in all, had not an envious fate
Denied a happy ending." Thus he cried,		712
And to his chamber fled, and flung the crown aside.

LXXXI. A custom in Hesperian Latium reigned,
Which Alban cities kept with sacred care,
And Rome, the world's great mistress, hath retained.
Thus still they wake the War-god, whensoe'er
For Arabs or Hyrcanians they prepare,
Or Getic tribes the tearful woes of war,
Or push to Ind their distant arms, or dare
To track the footsteps of the Morning star,		721
And claim their standards back from Parthia's hosts afar.
LXXXII. Twain are the Gates of War, to dreadful Mars
With awe kept sacred and religious pride.
A hundred brazen bolts and iron bars
Shut fast the doors, and Janus stands beside.
Here, when the senators on war decide,
The Consul, decked in his Quirinal pall
And Gabine cincture, flings the portals wide,
And cries to arms; the warriors, one and all,		730
With blare of brazen horns make answer to the call.
LXXXIII. 'Twas thus that now Latinus they require
To dare Æneas' followers to the fray,
And ope the portals. But the good old Sire
Shrank from the touch, and, shuddering with dismay,
Shunned the foul office, and abjured the day.
Then, downward darting from the skies afar,
Heaven's empress with her right hand wrenched away
The lingering bars. The grating hinges jar,		739
As back Saturnia thrusts the iron gates of War.